Pinot Noir: A skipping track on an old jazz record
by TinyAngryPuppy
Summary: A story whispered between conspirators on speakeasy barstools. The suave gangster, the bitter detective, the glamorous actress, and the small-town girl with big-city dreams: The four are destined to meet, forced fight, and fated to love... ch. 5 up
1. Chapter 1

The Greyhound pulls up to station. Steam is rising from vents in the sidewalk, and the dim streetlamps cast an eerie glow. Miserable travelers file off one by lonely one. A young girl's brown leather shoe breaks up a dirty lump of snow as she takes her first step into Steel Cable City. She looks around.

Her gaze travels upwards, to the grey clouds in the grey sky. "_It never really gets dark at night in Steel Cable," _Her Ma told her before she departed from the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Idaho. "_It's just kinda… Sorta dark, all the time. Look up in the sky and you won't see no stars. They plucked those stars right down and put them on the street corners and pawn shop windows."_ The girl looks at the illuminated face of the clock on the station's façade. 10 O'clock. _Is it morning or nighttime?_ She wonders.

"Duck? Someone here called Duck?" Calls out the bulky station hand.

"Um, yes! That's me!" Says Duck, frantically looking around to find the man. "What do you-"

"Gotcher luggage, ma'am." The agent hands the lean redhead her lonesome brown leather suitcase.

She hefts it, her tired arms adjusting to the weight of the ugly thing, and tips the man two copper pennies before turning around and walking off into the fog. From behind her, she can barely hear the man mumble "Weird fuckin' name." Gazing back and forth between the monolithic steel-and-stone buildings, lights checkering their grids of windows, the girl can't help but be astonished at the _scale_ of it all. Puffs of breath rise from her red lips, and she sets her case on the dirty ground to adjust her heavy coat and scarf. In the distance, a police siren sings its urgent tale.

She digs the moist directions out of the pocket of her brown leather coat. She checks the signposts. She's on the right track. Fifteenth and Myrtle Street, M comes after G, so she's gotta head North. Something like seven blocks she's gotta schlep this case, but she can't afford a taxi, she thinks to herself, so she's gotta do it this way. For a girl from the plains this is nothing. Used to work on a cattle ranch, and all that. She picks up her case and begins to walk again.

_I had to get to the city,_ she reflects. _Couldn't take those wide open spaces any more. Got on a bus, fell asleep. And now I'm here. A city of a million strangers._ She squeezes the damp paper for a second and goes to put it in her pocket, but of course the wind picks up and blows it right out of her brown leather glove, and as she dives after it and lands in an oily puddle, it flies away, blending into the dismally gray cityscape like one more flake in a snowdrift. A tear pollutes Duck's crystal-clear blue eye.

Mr. Katz's Ballet Academy

_Teaching the fine arts since 1918_

15th and Myrtle, Steel Cable City, Il.

Beginners through advanced students, all are accepted!

Reasonable rates * Fine facilities

Free relationship advice gladly given

Snowflakes flutter around the red-headed girl clad all in brown, and seem to hover still for a moment. Duck sniffs and chokes back a sob. It's not like she hasn't read the flyer a hundred times, but the power, the confidence it gave her was _palpable_. It was that flyer that had given her the inspiration to strike out on her own. Now she's lost it, and on top of that, she's soaked through and freezing.

It would have been so perfect. The awkward, gangly teen, so used to the smell of cow shit everywhere she's surprised when she _can't_ smell it, would burst into the ballet academy and enroll right then and there with ten silver, shiny dollars. A years' worth of lessons, right there. 3 months of hard work, in silver, on the front desk. Silver for Mr. Katz, who she'd always imagined as being so handsome even though her Ma told her not to trust city folks because _they're always trying to swindle simple folks like us_. Duck didn't know the difference, never having met a city folk, and frankly he could be a 6-foot-tall cat and she wouldn't care. The fact he'd advertise in the Boise rag she got for news endeared him to her, and anyway she liked his name.

Her Ma's cruel words are barbs in her side as she rights herself and hugs her damp side to protect herself from the biting wind. Her side is in enough pain, burning with cold. Seven blocks. It's gotta be almost 11 by now, and it's gotta be nighttime because it's a bit darker than it was before, and a bit colder.

The noise of men arguing rings out from an alleyway. She can't make it out, but maybe one of them is a nice man and can give her a ride in his buggy- _I mean automobile_- because if she can make it to Katz's, everything will be OK. She'll be beautiful and strong like the Ballerinas in the papers. It doesn't occur to her that an argument is not a good place to stick your nose in the middle of the night in the middle of the city in an alleyway. She can't really tell that one car is smashed into the other, and the other is a Rolls-Royce limousine. The cold wet coat is _painful_ on her side and the wind pierces her like a dagger.

She arrives at the alleyway, and in the dark corridor the vision that greets rocks her.

One man, hair of white, young, gun in his hand. Smile on his face. Gleam in his eye.

Gun is pointed at the other man. Man is older, but not much. Long hair tied back. Black as pitch. Fedora. Furious. Terrified. But there's something else in his expression. Something like… love?

White Hair pulls the trigger. Black hair slumps forward and is still. It happens so fast Duck doesn't even have time to know what's going on; she may as well have walked into a motion picture show.

"I feel… Nothing at all."

It seems so unreal, until White Hair turns to her and grins.

"Hello there, dame."

___

"Goddamn, is it this late already?" Growls Autor, spinning the shot glass around on the slick bar with his fingers while he looks up at the clock like some kind of a guillotine. It's about 10. "Wife's gonna have my ass. I didn't behave badly tonight did I? You got my back, in case she accuses me of anything? I mean, you know how jealous she can be."

"No, Autor. You only came on to _every single bimbo_ _in the place._ You're like a goddamn choir boy._" _Growls Fakir- That's _Detective_ Fakir to you, palooka- right back. "Hey cutie! 'nother pint for me. My esteemed colleague here's inebriated enough." His college-boy vocabulary used to get him into all kinds of trouble with the other cops on his beat, but tonight that all changes.

As of tonight he's _Detective_ Fakir, officer no longer. He'll come to the precinct in a suit and tie, a slick hat, and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. The boys in blue will shut the hell up about how they can't understand what he's saying. No shiny brass buttons, no, fuck that. You can keep 'em. Spent 2 paychecks on an Italian suit, half of another one to get it tailored. He can move in that suit like a dancer, his partner the 5-shot detective special tucked away under his arm. 5 shots are all he'll ever need.

Good thing he's only on shot number 3, if you don't count the beers. Autor got tight right away, the skinny little rookie, drifting around like a leaf in the wind, flirting with the chickens and teasing the other men. The girls think he's cute enough, and the men would feel bad for rising to his glib, being that he's so small. Now he's curled up, dozing away on the bar, murmuring something about "Don't be mad baby, it was just a bit of fun."

Fakir looks around the room. _This place is basically a basement_, he thinks. The nightclub upstairs is so much more boring than when he'd gotten here, the city I mean, from Brick Wall. Brick Wall City, Massachusetts, his home sweet home. Back in '18, just out of college and ready to put his criminal law degree to good use in the gang violence capital of the country. Brick Wall had its gangs, all right, the Russians and the Italians always firing back and forth. But if he became a cop there, in his home, sooner or later he'd have to kill one of his friends, his brothers, from the orphanage. And it'd probably be sooner. And it'd probably happen again and again. So he left for Steel Cable.

When he'd gotten here, the wine was flowing, the music was hot, and the girls were doe-eyed and innocent… But more than willing to let their desires get the better of them. Nowadays, upstairs in the club proper, the bandmates argue, the girls cling together in groups and fear to stray, and the men have nothing to fight over. But Down in the basement a bit of that magic is still there. There's still a gleam in the dames' eyes, and voices occasionally get raised. The conspiratorial excitement of danger permeates the chests of everyone who take a sip of the tunneled-in vermouth, gin, rum, or bourbon. Or Fakir's drink of choice, a nice dark lager.

Only the owner and bartenders knows who they are. After all, the pair isn't paying for drinks; Quite the opposite in fact. At this speakeasy, the bartender pays them. Fakir gulped down his drink and signaled the well-built girl behind the counter that it was time they'd be leaving. The blonde winks at him and hands him an envelope. He thumbs through to make sure each bill was real before smiling at the broad and plucking Autor out of his stool. He turns on his heel and heads out the door.

He hefts the lanky rookie into his passenger's seat and walks around the black Model T to get in the driver's seat. He turns the ignition. It takes a minute. "Damn it's cold out." He mumbles to no one in particular.

Autor, still obviously asleep, murmurs "I'll warm you up, baby…" Fakir scowls and considers smacking the kid but decides to just get him to his house as soon as possible.

The smeared, streaked windshield displays a panorama of grey streets, horse carriages and automobiles carrying their charges about in the dismal darkness that always seemed to hang over Steel Cable. It has to be 10:30 by now. By the time Fakir delivers Autor to his appropriately livid wife, it's nearly eleven.

On the way back home, Fakir's attention is drawn to a remarkable limousine. It's right in front of him, and the thing is a beauty. The detective squints to get a better look at it, and a funny feeling comes across him. Maybe it's the liquor, but that car just rubs him the wrong way. _I'd better follow it for a while longer_, he decides.

The two cars are heading south, down 15th. Jacaranda. Kumquat. Lily.

Myrtle.

The limo slams on the brakes, and Fakir can't react in time. His Model T slams into the rear fender of the expensive-looking automobile, and all the breath leaves Fakir's lungs. He does a quick body check- he's unharmed, but his heart is beating like a drum. The car- It just stopped! It's not his fault, is it? His blood runs cold thinking about having to pay for this. Then he remembers the wad of bills in his pocket.

A huge man steps out of the driver's seat. He lumbers over to Fakir's window and his big bald head rumbles as he speaks in a low, easy tone. "What the hell is wrong with you, boy? You know who's in that car? A very busy man with important places to be. Why you gonna hit the boss's car, boy?

'_The boss'? Must be some kind of gangster!_ "I'm sorry, it's just that you braked so suddenly and I didn't notice-"

"Are you sayin' this is my fault? Are you saying the boss hired an inept driver? I think you're roundabout insultin' my boss. You don't wanna do that, buster. Boss don't like to be insulted."

"Look, sir, I can pay for damages. It just so happens…" Fakir pulls out a couple bills "I have some cash on me. Can I just pay for the repairs and we call it even? If they find out at work, I'm-"

And then Fakir's world turned upside down. _Oh fuck, fuck, fuck ME! Now I've really put my foot in it. Now I'm really done for!_

"At work, you say? And what kinda work is that? You aint… You aint the _heat_ is you? Boss don't _like_ the heat." The big man snarls. "Why don't you come with us. We'll settle this whole thing nice and easy so everyone is happy."

Fakir gulped. Reaching for his Colt would be suicide right now, that was for damn sure. But if he gets out of the car, it could end up the same way. "Look, sir. I'll give you _a hundred dollars_ and we'll all be square. That ding'll only need like ten bucks to fix."

The man sticks his face right up next to Fakir's. "Look, officer. I don't think you understand your position here. You're gonna get out of that car are you're gonna come with me. You're not going to worm your way out of this one. You're going to apologize to my boss for hittin' his car, and _he's_ going to decide what _I'm_ going to do to you. _Got it?!" _The final words are bellowed in fakir's face so loud his ears ring.

Fakir nods. "Ok. I'm coming out." He reaches over to the passager's seat for his hat, and in a flash he pulls his revolver out of his armpit holster. "It's detective!" he roars, and aims it squarely at the man's big round head. But the big round man is no longer there. Suddenly from nowhere the man rips the door open and a massive fist grasps Fakir's wrist, wrenching the small revolver out of his hands. It clatters onto the street. The thug slugs him once, twice, and a shot to the gut for good measure. Still grasping him by his neck, he swings the thin man out of the black Model T and drags him the long way around the limousine. He arrives at the boss' door and opens it, and in a pleasant tone of voice, says "I gotcher man, boss! Guess what? He's a bonified po-lice detective!"

"Very good work, Joe." Says a familiar voice as smooth as vermouth sliding over ice cubes. "I'll take it from here. You can wait in the car. Keep the lady entertained- tell her one of those boarding-school stories the boys love so much."

The huge man grins. "Yes sir, boss. Thank you boss." He walks around and gets into the driver's seat. As the door shuts, Fakir can hear from inside the big man saying "Did you see that, Miss Rue? I caught your happy hubby a real detective!"

"Look at me, detective." The velvety voice beckons. "I want to know if you recognize me." Fakir looks at the slightly shorter, white-haired young man. All of a sudden, his chestnut-brown eyes go wide. "No… of all the ruddy fucking luck-" He curses under his breath.

"Oh my god- Mytho!?" Fakir breathes. "Is that really- wait what the FUCK are you doing in Steel Cable City? You were going to Bright Light to be a dancer!"

The smooth voice was a little less smooth now. "You shut your damn trap about that, now, you hear? I'm not the boy you remember. I'm- I'M NOT THAT LITTLE BOY ANY MORE!" Mytho pulls a gun out of his waistband and aims it squarely at Fakir's chest. "At the orphanage we used to look out for each other, didn't we? You taught me so much. Walk backwards into that alley."

A tear slides down Fakir's check. "Mytho- what are you- what happened to you? I followed my dream… I'm a detective now! What about you? Where did you go wrong?"

"Stop." The quiet, white-haired boy lowers the gun. "Fakir, my best friend. My companion. You've taught me so much. But there's still one thing you've yet to teach me."

Fakir, tears flowing freely, sobs "Don't do this, we're like brothers, we're all we've got!"

"You're going to teach me how it feels to kill someone you love. Will I feel happy? Will I feel Sad? Will I be angry? I guess I have to thank you now, since I can't thank you afterwards. Thank you Fakir, for teaching me…"

A girl walks by. Mytho's back is turned to her. He does not see.

Mytho raises his gun, aimes it at Fakir's chest, and pulls the trigger. Fakir buckles and falls forward, gravity taking him for its own. In that instant, Mytho studies Fakir's expression, like an artist would his finished work. Fakir's mind spins like a wheel. There is no word for this feeling. Fakir remembers reading something in a textbook. _We cannot choose where we're born, only how we die._

_I did not choose this. _

And then the world is blotted from grey to black.

___

"It's gonna be a fun night, Boss!"

"That's right, Joe. We're going to have a great time. You, me, the boys, and my lovely wife. Of coruse, I'll arrange for there to be girls for you and the boys, too."

"Well that's awful considerate of you boss! Thanks!"

"Thank you, See you at 10. Now then, how about the '96? I think the '96 would be perfect, seeing as this is a joyous occasion. Charles, would you fetch a bottle of the '96 Pinot Noir, please?"

"Yes sir, boss. Are the canapés to your complete satisfaction?"

"Yes, Charles, they are. Send my compliments to the chef- and this too."

"Absolutely, boss. It's always a pleasure serving you."

"Well, I always enjoy brightening someone's day. Dear- You haven't touched your hors d'oeuvres. Shall I send them back? I rather enjoy the canapés."

"…"

"Darling, my gem. If something wrong, please tell me. Don't suffer in silence- You know how much I like to make you happy."

"These are far too heavy. I'll plump up."

"Sugar plum, my shining star. I'd still love you if you weighed a thousand pounds. And you know, the fashion in the clubs these days _is_ to be a bit soft around the middle. If the d'oeuvres taste good, and you want to eat them, eat them."

"Those girls can get stuffed- literally! Someone in my occupation can't afford to lose my figure. I have a public service- people look up to me!"

"Then I will call over the waiter and we'll order you a nice light meal that you're sure to enjoy. Charles!"

"I don't like that waiter. He's too respectful. I bet he's up to something."

"Yes sir, what can I do-"

"The lady would like some lighter fare. What do you have in the way of seafood? She'll have some freshwater bass, seared, with asparagus spears and perhaps can you include some of that hazelnut hollandaise I was so taken by last time? And we'll have to cancel the noir- for seafood a white zinfandel would be more appropriate. Do you have any '01?"

"Very good sir. As for the '01, we have only one bottle, and I'm afraid it's been opened, but the taste should not suffer as a result."

"Excellent. That would be lovely."

"Mytho, can I have some toast with that? I love the bread here."

"The lady will have 2 slices of… Rye toast."

"Sourdough!"

"Excuse me, Charles. Sourdough toast. With rosemary butter."

"Yes sir."

"I'm sorry about the hors d'oeuvres, my love. I'm confident even someone such as yourself with a responsibility to her public with find it irresistible- though I'd have recommend the Rye."

"Hee hee! Well I guess we'll find out if you were right when the entrees arrive."

…

"My, is it ten already? How the time does fly. Thank you for your promptness, Joe, as usual."

"Yes sir, I got here ten minutes early just so's I wouldn't be late!"

"Very good. Now, Let's be off."

"You know the way to corvo's, I trust?"

"Sure thing, boss. We're gonna shoot down Beech to fifteenth, then south all the way to Pine. It's between Pine and Kwi-no-uh."

"It's pronounced Keen-wah. Impeccable as always, Joe, you're a treasure."

"Aw shucks, boss, it's nothing. See ya when we get there!"

"Now then, Rue, my angel. I believe you had a surprise in store for me?"

"Well, I guess that depends, Mytho. If you know what's coming, it's not much of a surprise, is it? For instance, if I were going to… Run my cold little hand up your thigh… Would you be surprised?"

"Mmmm… Not very. It would take much more to surprise me."

"So if I were to… loosen your belt, take down your trousers… mmmmh, _there_ he _is_. I guess you weren't surprised, were you?"

"Well, I was. But my little friend has been looking forward to this all day."

"Oh yeah? I've got something up my sleeve tonight that you can't possibly be expecting."

"But pumpkin- Your gown is sleevelEE_AAAAAAAAAANGH!"_

"Told you you'd be surprised."

"Aaaahhh… keep going! I don't even want to know where you learned this, but mmmmmm… I'm glad you did! Aaahh…"

"You're so cute when you're like this, Mytho."

"And you… Look even more… beautiful… from up here…_MMMMMMHHH_!"

"HOLY SHIT!"

"Oh what does Joe want now-"

"BANG"

"Ooof!"

"Goddammit- I was almost there. We're doing this again later, honey, hell, let's skip the party and get a room somewhere. WHAT IS IT, JOE? WHY'D WE STOP?"

"Almost hit a blind old lady, sir. Sorry about that, very sorry. Then some jackass rear-ended us. You want I should deal with him?"

"No, no, it's OK. We must respect our elders, after all, and that means no running them over in the streets. As for the ruffian in the Model T, be severe- I bet he can't even afford to _look_ at this car."

"Yes sir."

"So, my love. You want to go to the party at your father's club, or should we have a little party of our own, just the two of us?"

"Oh Mytho- Why not both? Daddy needs to know you're taking care of me, and anyway you haven't thanked him for his Christmas gift! You know, the one we're sitting in? So let's getin and out of these as soon as possible, then over to the Lushlife hotel for some _real _fun."

"Sounds good, lover."

"I gotcher man, boss! Guess what? He's a bonified po-lice detective!"

"Very good work, Joe. I'll take it from here. You can wait in the car. Keep the lady entertained- tell her one of those boarding-school stories the boys love so much."

"Yes sir, boss. Thank you boss."

"Look at me, detective. I want to know if you recognize me… No… of all the ruddy fucking luck-"

"Oh my god- Mytho!? Is that really- wait what the FUCK are you doing in Steel Cable City? You were going to Bright Light to be a dancer!"

"You shut your damn trap about that, now, you hear? I'm not the boy you remember. I'm- I'M NOT THAT LITTLE BOY ANY MORE! At the orphanage we used to look out for each other, didn't we? You taught me so much. Walk backwards into that alley."

"Mytho- what are you- what happened to you? I followed my dream… I'm a detective now! What about you? Where did you go wrong?"

"Stop. Fakir, my best friend. My companion. You've taught me so much. But there's still one thing you've yet to teach me."

"Don't do this, we're like brothers, we're all we've got!"

"You're going to teach me how it feels to kill someone you love. Will I feel happy? Will I feel Sad? Will I be angry? I guess I have to thank you now, since I can't thank you afterwards. Thank you Fakir, for teaching me…"

'BANG'

"I feel… Nothing at all."

"…!"

"Hello there, dame."

END OF PART 1


	2. Chapter 2

Mytho shades his eyes with one lean forearm, shadow falling across his face curved and distorted. The sun glares down at him like a pupil full of scorn. "Why can't you just hit the damn ball?" It seems to ask.

"Mytho! Get a hold of yourself! You still have one chance left! We can still win this!" Shouts Fakir, from the dugout. He's in the shade too. A breeze shifts the fine dust at Mytho's feet. He grips the long, straight pole like a barre in the studio, a place he'd much rather be. In the studio, silence surrounds him, not the catcalls and jeers of the other boys.

"Come on, you little bitch! Hit the ball!" Someone calls out. He takes a breath. The pitcher winds up. There's real hatred in his eyes. He coils and releases. Mytho's eyes follow the ball on its violent course through the air closer and closer. The stitching on the baseball winds around the white sphere, like the ball is still and the red strings are serpents slithering over it. He draws back and swings with all his strength.

Fakir is there, in an instant, blocking the blows of the furious wave of boys twice his size. He lost the game. It's his fault. He knows this now; they scream over and over. His big, brown eyes overflow with tears. He's so sorry. Sorry isn't good enough for the orphanage boys, though- they'll be satisfied with nothing less than blood. Fakir's broad back is a wall between Mytho and the world, and the shade it casts cools him. "Fakir-" He begins to say. "Just get out of here, Mytho! Run!" Shouts Fakir.

It's later, in the bedroom. "So you're awake." Fakir says, his face a blot of bruises, black and blue, walking up the stairs. Mytho gazes out the window, hugging his knees. "You really should just stay inside… You always get into so much trouble. I won't always be here to protect you."

"Fakir… yes you will. Because even when we go our separate ways, I'll carry you with me… In my heart."

Fakir walks towards the smaller boy and puts his hand on his shoulder. "Idiot. When we say good bye, it's goodbye forever. That's just the way this world works."

Mytho looks up with those big brown eyes and intones ever so softly. "Without you in it, Fakir- my heart will shatter. Can we please be together tonight?"

Fakir strokes Mytho's cheek. "Of course, little brother. Of course." Together, the two brothers fall into slumber.

___

Mytho wakes up. His white linen sheets are warm around him, he wishes he could stay in bed all day. He glances behind him at the mess of black curls. Must be Rue's day off. She's usually such a morning person, gone before he even awakens.

Being careful not to wake her, he steps out of bed, the cuffs of his striped pajama pants brushing the floor. He makes his way to the bathroom, its large sunken European-style bath inviting him to fill it up and just luxuriate, but today is a work day, and it sets a good example for the boys to get started early. He fixes his toothbrush with some toothpaste and scrubs away. The bitter, chalky taste is foul, but it's a small price to pay to have teeth in your head past the age of 40.

He glances over at the bath, and Rue's collection of bath treatments. He turns on the faucet, pours in a couple ounces of something French, and closes the door. He writes a note on the bathroom door for Rue about how the bath is all ready for her, and do have a lovely day off. He pauses, flips through his notecase, then pins a ten to the note and scribbles at the bottom _Have something extra-special for lunch and I'll see you for dinner. I love you_

He walks across the room, eyes fixed on the beautiful girl in his bed, drinking in the sight of her from every angle. Her vanity disappears when she sleeps and she's a child again, pouting lips so innocent. He arrives at his walk-in closet, picks out a black pinstriped suit, three-pieced and double-breasted, and a blood-red shirt to go with it. He decides against his usual cravat and picks out a black necktie instead, dangling it around his neck to tie later.

He walks out of the grand bedroom into the lavish hallway, fiddling with his cuff links. A young man with a black leather attaché case walks beside him, reading him news headlines and stock figures. His financial enterprises are doing well, and none of his boys got into any trouble, at any rate. There was a shooting at 15th and Myrtle, a particularly sloppy one, too. The victim survived, but would have bled to death if not for a young girl from Idaho who called an ambulance in time. Something about the story seems awfully familiar, but he doesn't ask the boy to read the whole thing; it's too nice a morning. He sits down at the elegantly-set breakfast table.

"Will Lady Rue be joining you for breakfast this morning, Boss?" Asks Alfonse.

"No, Alfonse, and no one is to wake her. There is perhaps nothing more wonderful in life than awakening by oneself, especially when you work as hard as the Lady."

"Very good sir. Anything you'd like in particular to begin your busy day?"

"What's the staff having? To be honest I'm hoping for something light- Those canapés seem to have stuck with me, if you get my drift, I ate so many of them- So perhaps a buttered croissant with blackcurrant jam and seltzer." Alfonse's head bows, and he spins around and heads back into the kitchen, spring-hinged doors waving behind him after he passes. The Boss always asks what the staff is having as though in an effort to be chummy, but never seems interested, and always orders something different anyway. If some people did it, it would be manipulative, a way of saying, "Remember who works for who here." But Alfonse knew better. The Boss simply fell into these routines, and he surely cared at some point and had since quit caring, and anyway he's devilishly fond of ordering food; he could order for an entire table and each guest would be completely satisfied. Rue, on the other hand, ordered food she liked _the idea_ _of_, and rarely enjoyed it at all.

After having shot a picture in the Swiss Alps for a murder mystery set in a ski resort, she was dead set on high-class French cuisine. Dish after dish, she ordered and hated. Pate de Foie Gras, hated it. Escargo, hated it (On several occasions, actually). Bouillabaisse, in a variety of shades, hated hated hated it. But Mytho would just give a sad little shake of the head and call over the waiter, whom the Lady would inevitably hate, and come up with something that Miss Corvo (She kept her maiden name for the purpose of her career) ended up loving.

As The Boss tidily finishes his breakfast and gets into the black limousine (repaired overnight and looking good as new), The Lady is stirring upstairs. Rue sits up in bed, her negligee falling around her pale shoulders unevenly, and blinks a couple times. She yawns deeply and swallows, grimacing at the taste in her mouth. She rolls out of bed, walked around the massive thing, and comes to the note on the door. "…_Have something extra-special for lunch and I'll see you for dinner. I love you"_. She unpins the ten, folds it in half, and places it on the table next to the door which supports a simple vase containing a nice bird-of-paradise. She stretches her long, thin arms and scratches her behind a couple times before opening the door and stepping into the bathroom.

Delighted to find the sunken bathtub full of piping-hot water, she smiles as she performs her toilette. _I've really hit the jackpot_, she thinks to herself. _Days like this just make me never want my life to change. All I have to do is not get old, and I'll be happy forever… _She fiddles through the medicine cabinet for a specific skin treatment and knocks over a small pill case she hadn't noticed before. A few black pills spill out as the steel case opens on impact with the floor. Each one is red with the design of a black feather on it. She reaches down and picks it up. Turning it over in her hand, she discovers a few words written on a label on the side:

From: Don Corvo

For: Mytho

Instructions: Take 2 nightly

Even after she replaces all the fallen pills, the case is only half full. _How odd,_ Rue thinks. _Oh well, it's probably none of my business_. So the beautiful girl strips off her nightdress and steps into the tub, pushing the pill case (now resting safely back in the medicine cabinet) likewise to the back of her mind.

___

They're down 1 point. Fakir's been playing like a beast, and the other boys on the team are playing for keeps as well. All of them except Mytho. It figures it would all fall on him. No, that's not exactly true, two boys before him walked up to the plate with 2 outs against them and all that pressure, and both of them delivered; one is on second and the other made it home. But Mytho is not playing for keeps. Mytho's hardly playing at all.

Fakir squints a bit more, hoping against hope that maybe this will be the time. The pitcher winds up. He releases the ball like a locomotive, white and streaked crimson. The ball spins low to high inside the strike zone. Mytho swings too late.

STRIKE!

The dugout explodes in yells and shouts. The din is deafening, but Fakir hardly hears it; He's pushing through the surging throng to get there first, to get to the small bright boy first. He throws himself through, and lands on his hands and feet, catlike, and straightens with his arms out.

"Get away from Mytho! You lay a finger on him and I'll fuckin' kill you!"

Someone yells back "Then you're getting' busted up instead! Kill this fuckin' faggot!"

And in the last moments before they fall onto him with their limbs swinging, he turns around and whispers, "Just get out of here, Mytho! Run!" Mytho runs, gracefully, out of the sandlot and back to the orphanage. Fakir levels his eyes just in time to take a blow to the chin, and the sun goes out.

It's later, in the bedroom. Mytho's pale, chilly beauty and empty eyes greet him as he walks up the stairs, every inch of him a tangle of soreness and sharp pains. Cuts, bruises, a pair of black eyes- he's seen better days. Suddenly Mytho's asleep in his arms, chest gently rising and falling, but Fakir is as awake as an owl. He slides off the bed, slips on his trousers and shoes, and walks downstairs nimbly. He goes down into the "studio," really just a small part of the basement he and Mytho roped off and lined with an amalgam of mirrors, and begins to stretch. The other boys make fun of them for dancing, that's natural. No one does anything without getting made fun of, not even boxing or baseball. But they don't screw with the studio; they're afraid of what Fakir will do to them if they do.

He puts a record on the gramophone, his sole valuable possession. Once the boys are 16 they can get a part-time job, and working as a dock hand pays well enough to afford a luxury once in a while. It's something European, the Bright Light City Symphony Orchestra recording. That's where Mytho's going to go, Bright Light City, rising up from Brick Wall like a phoenix and going to the city forever in the light, where dancers are valued for their commitment and skill. He listens to the record for a minute before picking up a ballet book and reading over a few steps. Following the example in the illustrations, he begins to practice.

Fakir wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. The walls are all wood-paneled, and the room is poorly lit by an oil lamp. His keen detective's mind notes details subconsciously- not much furniture, that which there is is cheap, and everything is unvarnished, unpainted wood. The mattress he's on feels like straw- which century is this!? _What I wouldn't do for a drink-_ his begins to think, but the door opens.

"I heard you wake up! I mean- well it's not like I was right outside- I mean, I was right outside but not the whole time, just for a bit, just a couple hours- are you OK? You're lucky to be alive! The doctor said you'd be fine, the bullet missed your vi-tal or-gans- uh he said _bed rest and lots of fluids_ but all I have is well water, I can't afford milk or teas and my gas isn't connected yet so I can't boil water anyway- all I have to eat is sandwiches, my neighbor let me use her stove so I boiled a whole bunch of eggs for egg salad-"

"Who the hell are you?" Rasped Fakir.

"Well it's not really egg salad, more like cut-up hard boiled eggs, I haven't had time to make mayonnaise- You were out for a while, I guess you must be confused."

"No, really, who the hell are you? I remember hitting a car but after that it's a blur," He lied. _That was definitely Mytho. Mytho definitely shot me. Why aren't I dead?!_ The man sat up, then realized he was shirtless with a network of bandages over his chest. The girl really had called a doctor to patch him up! "Uh- thanks, dame- wow, this must have been expensive…"

The thin, red-headed girl giggled. "It sure was, Mister Fakir! I'm Duck, by the way. Don't worry about the cost though- your wad covered the whole thing! Must be nice to get paid in cash… I figured police detectives must get salaries, but then again, I'm new to the city, so I have a lot to learn."

Fakir craned his head up to get a good look at the oddly-named girl. She really did have a lot to learn… and among those things was modesty; she was in a linen slip and nothing else, with a bright, innocent, cheery smile and her fingers intertwined in front of her. Tendrils of pain pulled him down, blushing slightly, but his keen detective's mind decided she was a high-7 to maybe an 8 in the right light. He liked redheads but too bad she was so skinny; less curves than a two by four. That smile, though- her beaming, kindhearted smile seemed to _click_ something in his brain because all of a sudden he was smiling too.

"Oh… yeah. Of course. You can keep the rest, get your apartment painted or something. Thanks for this- I appreciate it."

"Wow, Mister Fakir, that's so generous of you- but there's still almost a hundred dollars here! That's more money than I've seen in my life, at least, all in one place like this, that is, before that night."

"_That_ night? Not _last_ night? How long have I been out?"

"About three days." The smiling girl closed her eyes and tilted her head to one side, holding up three fingers. Her long, bright orange hair waved, warm light from the lamp dancing over her untidy bangs. Her innocent grin put Fakir at ease, even though he should have been alarmed.

"Three days, huh? Just what happened after I blacked out, anyway?"

The girl's expression darkened. She reached for an unpainted wooden chair and drew it towards her. As she gathered her scant clothing around her legs to sit, the warm light illuminated her white garment, and she was ghostlike for a second. Her small chest expanded for a moment, and with a long breath out, she began. "If I'm gonna tell you the whole story, I have to start before that night."

Fakir's keen detective's mind drew out its yellow scratch-pad and began taking notes, while the man shut his eyes to better visualize the story as it unfolded in the girl's wavering, musical voice.

___

" I had just saved up enough money to come to Steel Cable on a greyhound bus and have some money besides, so I quit my job and bought a ticket. Y'see, I was a cattle hand, which seems like an odd thing for a girl to be, but I'm from a tiny little town in Idaho so they take who all they can get. Boss was a nice, nice man, except for he was a little queer about the ladies, he was always running around and making a ruckus about "Judgment" and "Beauty" and so on. So when I told him I was going to steel cable and showed him the newspaper clipping for the Mr. Katz Ballet Studio, he fixed me up a whole mess of luggage and a-cout-ra-ments to go with 'em. That's why all my coat and gloves and so on are all brown leather. He told me that '_I would definitely succeed if I believed in my dream strong enough'_.

"It was right near the studio I was going to actually that I saw you and that man. I was going to march in there- though now I don't know why I thought it would be open, I think I thought it was morning-time or something- and pay for a whole year's worth of lessons. I didn't have no plan about where to stay or what I was gonna feed myself on, but then again, I'm really not the smartest tool in the shed so it's no surprise to anyone. Well, there I was, soaked to the bone cause I fell in a puddle, and I see a car crash, and there's a dark man and a light man, and one of them, I think you know which one, shoots the other! Then he turns and I can see his eyes, blood-red and bright, and he just says, "_Hello there, dame_."

"So I say, cause I'm so scared, 'Are you gonna kill me, mister?'

"And the man says, 'No, missy. I'm not gonna kill you, because I'm in an impatient mood tonight. Just a moment ago, I was having a fabulous time with my wife in my limousine, and now I have been forced to ruin the whole atmosphere of the evening. I hope to become rather _sloppy_ later so as not to remember this little mess- You see, I'd _known_ that man in the distant past- well, in some capacity but it's none of your concern. I was, after all, a different person back then.'

"'Why did you shoot him?!'

"'Stupid little girl, keep asking questions and I might change my mind. Now listen up- You're going to forget you've seen anything and I'm not going to kill you. Now be a good girl and run along- Remember, you didn't see a thing. And forgive me for not acting more dramatic about it but the simple fact is, _if_ you breathe a word about this to anyone, _then_ I or one of my men will stop at nothing until your confirmed death- and it won't be a simple gunshot, I'm talking _slow and excruciating._'

"By this time I was sobbing like crazy, I mean, who wouldn't be? There I was looking at a bloody corpse, that's you, remember, and this man just telling me to run off- I haven't figured out yet why he didn't kill me, but there must have been some reason. So he drives off, and it's you and me in this alley. I feel on your neck like I seen 'em do, and lo and behold, you're still alive! So I sit you upright and tell you to hold still 'cause I guess I thought you could hear me and I look through your wallet, and find your detective shield. So I figure at this point the deal's changed since you're alive and if you're a cop then it's a bit safer for me to tell someone about it, onna counta police protection, so I run to a call box and I call the police, and soon enough they've got you in a hospital, and I stay there with you 'cause I don't have no place to stay, I was gonna find a motor court or something.

"Well the doctors kick me out the next morning cause '_this ain't no hotel missy'_ and so I go about looking' for a place to live. Basically, this place here was all I could afford, and so I put the down payment on it and leave off some things and head right back to the hospital, to check up on you. When you're stitched up enough to be let go, I sign you out and call a car and take you home. I know you've got a place; I went 'round to check it out after you was OK here, but I couldn't sit in in your place without permission, it would be pre-sump-tu-ous. So's you're here, in my apartment, and you been here for a while now."

___

Fakir's eyes open. The tone of Duck's voice indicates her story has come to a close. "If you want to go back to your place, that would be OK I guess, but you're gonna need someone to take care of you." She stands up and leans over the bed, face nearing his. "Do you have someone to take care of you, Mister Fakir?"

Fakir's face reddens, and his heartbeat increases. What a sight to greet him after he wakes from death: This girl, face framed by soft hair glowing in the even light, her big blue eyes tender and caring, has been through hell for him while he's been down. Now it's starting to seem more like the other place… "No, Miss Duck. I don't have anyone like that."

She blinks a couple of shining tears out of her eyes. "I'm so glad… Because that means I can do this." She breathes, and leans down.

She's careful not to touch his chest, instead bracing herself with an arm beside him. She closes her eyes, like she's seen done in the picture shows. She places her soft lips upon his and holds her breath. She pulls away, not sure if she did it right, but her heart is fluttering and a warmth has spread through her so fully she's positive she must be glowing. Fakir holds out his hand and she takes it in hers.

The man rasps out, "So, you're gonna take care of me, huh, cutie?"

Duck nods, a smile across her face. "Mm hmm."

"You're making a mistake- I'm really no good."

"I don't believe you, and anyway I don't mind."

"I drink, you know. And smoke and gamble."

"That doesn't bother me, as long as you don't mess around with other girls."

"Why are you being so kind to me? What could I possibly do to pay you back?"

"Well, I guess you could fall in love with me."

The man smiles and lies back. "I don't think I _can_ fall in love. I've tried. "

She gets up, turns around, and starts to exit the room. At the last step she turns her head, winks, and says, "Try harder this time."

END OF PART 2


	3. Chapter 3

Well, a year later, here's part 3. Hope you enjoy.

"This should be in the pictures! A detective out to catch the guy that shot him. It'd be a good fit for Gerald Charon to direct."

"Oh yeah, that guy knows how to put together a suspense. I loved Spirit of the Lamp and Ghost Knight."

"Can we please focus!" barks Detective Fakir, recently returned to his position. He'd come back as soon as he was able, and the men had noticed immediately how much more high-strung he was even than usual. He smoked in a chain these days, and shaved maybe one a week. Every walking moment was dedicated to finding the white-haired Mafioso. He scarcely ate, and if it weren't for that new girl who was always buzzing around him, he probably wouldn't eat at all. Pacing, holding his side, he'd send them off on pointless errands just to get them on the street and searching, and it was getting old.

"Gee, Detective, can't ya just take it easy? Your wound's gonna reopen!" Says one of the film buffs. "Maybe you should go to the picture show yourself, just relax a bit."

"While Mytho is still active? God only knows what he could be up to next! He's with the Corvo mob now for Christssake! What if he'd shot…" He trails off.

The cops lean in towards him, a few cracking smiles. "Who boss?" One of them says. "That redheaded cutie? That'd be a real shame."

"Yeah," Retorts another, in a slow drawl. "Dame like that getting all maternal over you… as if you weren't lucky enough just getting your detective badge, fate hands you a dame like that…"

"A dame like what?" a girl's voice sounds from the doorway to the office. Duck makes her way in, waving thick clouds of cigarette smoke aside. "I may be rural, but I'm no weakling, if that's what you're saying."

"How'd you get in here, girl?" Asks the senior of the officers. Fakir just scowls.

"I just walked right in, past the front desk. They know me. I have lunch for your boss-man here." Replied Duck. Walking around the desk to Fakir's side, she pecks him on the cheek and puts a tin lunch pail on the desktop. He blushes then tries to look uninterested, but his hand remains on the small of her back. "Make sure you eat your apple! You need your strength, and those things keep doctors away from what I hear." The Great Plains affect in her singsong voice is obvious compared to the thick city accents of the cops. She rubs his shoulder a bit then breaks away, briskly walking out of the room with a cheerful "Good afternoon, officers!"

There is silence for a moment.

Then the cops are rolling on the floor, clutching their sides with laughter, repeating her words in imitations of her voice. "Make sure you eat your apple!" "Those things keep doctors away!" Fakir's blush has spread to his entire face, and he sits at the chair and spins it around to face the wall.

"None of you good-for-nothing assholes had better be here when I turn around."

Her deed done, Duck flips her collar up in preparation to step outside. It's chilly out, and the brown leather does a poor job keeping her warm. Fakir has given her some cash and told her time and time again to buy herself a coat with it, but she refuses, claiming she can tough it out. She's gotten so much stronger here, she reflects, and with a handsome man to care for and her new ballet lessons, her days are full and productive. She recounts her daily activities in thick weekly letters to her mother, including trinkets like ticket stubs, Sears catalog cutouts, and lithographed advertisements for flower seeds and cosmetics.

She's gotten rid of her apartment filled with awful splintery furniture and he left his dingy dungeon of a one-bedroom; they moved to a nicer place closer to the station and the studio both. His detective's salary keeps them comfortable, but the more he heals, the more obsessed he becomes with catching that scary white-haired man. He brings home boxes of folders and flips through them late into the night, scanning for any connections. She's given up trying to get him to forget them and go to sleep at a reasonable time, but she hasn't given up offering to help, desperate to be near to him, though the answer is the same every time.

Every night they share dinner and a record or two, but she goes off to bed earlier, and at about 2 in the morning, she's awoken by him stumbling into the bedroom, smelling sometimes of liquor, undressing noisily, then going back into the living room and falling asleep on the couch.

He's obsessively careful about not touching her. Maybe it's the criminal law degree, maybe it's the guilt he still carries over her ordeal to save him, but she thinks it's probably her- Who'd want to hold a girl like her close? Who'd want to make love to a skinny dumb ex-cattle-hand? In those moments in the middle of the night she hopes against hope he'll succumb to her innocent requests and join her in the queen-sized bed, maybe allow an arm across her, maybe more. She studies his face, a mask of bitter disappointment, in the sliver of light cast through the doorway. He yanks off his already-loose necktie, then unbuttons his vest if he's still wearing one. As his clothes come off piece by piece, each one discarded with disdain, her heartbeat quickens, a blush spreading on her face. He yanks the band keeping his ponytail in place away and his wiry locks fall around his shoulders. She nearly squeaks. Then the sliver vanishes and he along with it, and she's alone again.

She gathers the rough material around her neck and exhales a puff of warm breath; it floats silverly into the air and dissipates. Amused by this, she begins to trot along down the street flanked by monolithic structures towards the high-rise where her bathtub awaits her. Her muscles are sore from ballet practice yesterday, just as tomorrow they'll be sore from her lesson later tonight, but a good soak eases things significantly.

She passes a brick building slapped with posters for a new Gerald Charon picture, something about a lovelorn princess in medieval times. It reminds her of Ghost Knight a little, but then all of his movies lean toward the macabre, the medieval, and the magical. The new one stars Lady Rue Corvo, a beautiful actress whose eyes are always painted red on these posters, though on screen they're simply a light gray; if they really are that color it's a shame it doesn't translate onto film. She always looks so sad, reflects Duck.

For some reason she stops to look at the poster a little more closely. "Metro Goldkrone Mayer presents a Geral Charon picture" is emblazoned across the top, and the splash of the title boasts "Captive of the Crow King" in blood-red lettering. Lady Rue Corvo is splayed in a surrendering pose in the center on a flight of stairs, dressed in a black gown, and on the bottom a gallant knight charges at a shadowy monster in the shape of a bird; it must be the titular Crow King himself. Duck looks from the knight to the monster, then to the woman in the middle. She decides the best thing about the poster is Lady Rue's expression and makes a note to ask the theater owner for any spare copies of the poster once the film's had its run. Her mother would like it.

She looks at the simple watch on her left wrist. It's almost one o'clock. Anytime she spends dawdling is going to come out of her bath time, so she begins to walk home in earnest.

"Well, gentlemen." Booms the heavily accented voice of Artiglio "Don" Corvo. He's just finished detailing his new orders for his high-ranking officers, complete with maps, schematics, and diagrams. "Insintesi, I think you will find, with this new form of... intrattenimenti, um, 'funs,' we will find ourselves very happy men. Very happy, and very wealthy, even beyond my own intrattenimenti thus far." He folds his massive hands. "If there are no questions, let us dine!"

"One question, sir. If you'd be so kind." A slithering voice escapes the pale lips of a short young man in a white dinner jacket. The man is practically a celebrity in the family, half the age of most of the men at the table but twice as vicious. Mytho, pronounced Mew-toe, no last name given. The rules don't seem to apply to him, as near as the junior men can tell. He's not Italian, at least not Sicilian, and he hasn't done nearly as much leg work as any of the other made men. He can't even trace his liniage back a single generation, let alone 5, let alone to Sicily; he's an orphan, for Christssake! But his efficiency is beyond reproach. His perfection is beyond question. His cruelty is beyond measure.

"What is it, my figlio-in-legge? I think you cannot doubt that this new drug will have great effect?"

"Oh, not at all. I just wonder, if you have any practical results." His golden eyes gleam. "I want to see it working."

The old man begins to laugh. Something about this seems genuinely funny to him. A couple of the other men, his numbers 2 and 3, chuckle politely, but no one else does. "You want to see? What piuma looks like to take?" He wheezes between throaty chuckles. "You know, figlio, some entertainment would not be amiss here... I like nothing more than a good dinner show." He rings a bell, and two dinner-jacketed waiters appear immediately. "You there. What are you, boy?

The young waiter looks into his enormous dark face. "Sir?"

"What... Are... You...?" Repeats the old man, slowly enunciating each word. "Irish, maybe? You're not Russian are you?"

The boy nervously glances at his friend and then back at Don Corvo, responding "Sir, I'm Italian, my family comes from Venice."

The old man looks down the table and wrinkles his nose, so the men can see but not the boy, and then asks the important question. "How would you like to earn a very, very large tip tonight, ragazzo?"

The boy's eyes gleam. "Anything I can do, sir, to improve your evening will be my absolute pleasure, regardless of any tip!" It's a good response. Mytho is pleased with the boy's guile.

"Then I need you to demonstrate the effect of a new medicazione my company has developed. It's completely harmless, simply puts some… 'Pep in your step' as the young people say. You see I'm completely confident in my formula, but one of my men is maybe… not so sure. He wants to see for himself.."

The boy swallows, then says "Anything you say sir." Accepting the black and red pill he's offered, he swallows it dry. He stands still for a moment, as if expecting the effect to be instantaneous. "I certainly feel peppy!" He says, tone unconvincing, then "Are you gentlemen ready for your meal?"

"Yes, that will be fine. Buon Appetito!" rumbles Don Corvo, and suddenly waiters burst forth with baskets of bread, tureens of soup, piled plates of pasta, and huge stacks of sausages and various other cuts of meat. The table is full in moments, and after a quick Grace, dinner begins.

Mytho is overwhelmed by curiosity. The boy seemed completely unaffected. How could a drug with no effect make them rich men? And moreover, why was he the only one who seemed not to know what was going on? He chews gingerly on a lamb shank, appetite replaced by a need to solve this problem, until he is wrenched from his thoughts by a loud clatter.

The boy from earlier, the waiter, is back, but he's not the same person. His eyes are wide, his dinner jacket discarded at some point. He's breathing heavy. He runs into the room, propriety seemingly forgotten, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a long chef's knife in the other. "How's everyone's fooooooood?" He shouts, in a singsong voice that's completely disconcerting. He begins to wave the knife around. "Anyone need something cut up?"

One of the men reaches for his pistol, another grabs his hand and steadies him. Don Corvo smirks. "How are you feeling, my boy? Peppy?"

"Oh, yes sir!" Responds the waiter. "Peppiest ever! I feel like a million smackers!" Sweat beads on his forehead.

"Speaking of… You remember I mentioned a tip, right? Well. I've decided to raise the stakes. You're going to fight that waiter, there," He hoists a huge, long-fingernailed hand to another young waiter, who looks disbelieving, "And I'll give this," He raises a wad of $20 notes, "To the winner. Oh, you'd better put down that knife; it's just a boxing match."

The other waiter's expression goes from incredulous to shocked even as he is lunged upon by the Venetian. With quickness almost impossible to track with the eye, he pins the poor man, and showers his poor victim with blows, bloodying his face and bruising his ribcage. He doesn't stop until well after the poor man is unconscious.

Struggling to catch his breath, he stands up, cracks his back, and proceeds to rip off his shirt and run a victory lap around the table of cheering mobsters, hooting and catcalling. He arrives at Don Corvo's side, who hands him the money, then warmly shakes his hand, then pats his sweaty back. The Don smiles at Mytho, knowingly, confident the matter is settled. As he makes his exit, cash in trouser pocket, Artiglio Corvo begins to speak.

"This drug is no ordinary drug, my young son. This drug make an ordinary man into a monster. It make you fast, strong, sharpens your senses. One pill and you are addicted. And the best part is, you don't even know it. You don't remember taking it, you don't remember buying it. It becomes a part of you. You see this sign somewhere," He pulls his cigarette case out of his coat pocket and displays the black-and-red feather design emblazoned upon it for all to see, "And your minds tells you that you must have more. You will spend your last dime on it, you will kill for it. It is my gift to the world, the curse I will lay upon this town."

The men applaud, cheering their leader. Mytho claps too, but he's overcome by doubts. Why does his skin crawl at the sight of that feather pattern? Why doesn't he feel the slightest unease at the brutal display of violence?

Why did he want to join it?

"How long are you gonna avoid me!" Yells Duck, dressed only in a plain linen nightdress and clearly livid. "I'm sick of this staying-up-late crap!"

"What are you talking about!" Yells Fakir, arm still full of files from work. The table is covered in them, a sure sign of a long night ahead of him. "I got work to do! Anyway I'm not tired!"

"That's all the more reason!" Shouts the girl, then realizing what she just said, blushes a bit. "I mean, um- You know…" She looks downwards and trails off.

"What the fuck are you going on about now? First you want me to go to bed, now you want me to-" then it's his turn to blush. Their exchange hangs in the air as the two avoid each other's gaze and wait for the other to break the silence. The events of the night run through Duck's head.

Fakir came home at 5ish like usual, and like usual, all he'd eaten all day was the sandwich she packed him. She had some shepherd's pie warmed up for him, but it was a chore just getting him to eat that; all he wanted to do was go over tonight's files from the office. She tried to talk to him about anything but work- the new films of that month, her ballet classes, the weather. But the impenetrable clockwork of his detective's mind was already in motion, and as he absently pushed the food around his plate, she gave up on trying to wrench him away. As she headed out the door for her class at 6, he was already waist-deep in papers, and sure enough he was still there when she returned, except one difference- the bottle of Canadian gin beside him.

Wiped out from her class, she changed out of her sweaty clothes into a nightgown and poked her head out of the bedroom to see his progress. That's it. "Fakir? Fakir?" She gets his attention the second time. "It's getting late. Don't you think you should get to bed?"

"Hmm." He grumbles, not even looking up.

"Fakir!" Now he looks at her, noticing her immodest dress, then blushes and looks away. "I'm sick of you sleeping on that couch! You're going to go to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight, and not drunk, and you're going to sleep on a real bed, and dammit I've been cold all by myself!" her face is burning, but it's time it was said. "How long are you gonna avoid me! I'm sick of this staying-up-late crap!"

Which brings her to the present. She's mad. Fakir is furious. He stands up, drops his pen and scratch pad, and stomps right up to her. Yanking the door from her, eliminating the barrier, he holds her shoulders. "Look, Duck. You're a strong young woman. Smart and tough. Yeah?"

"Well, I dunno about…"

"Save it. Now listen close. I'm a Forceful person. I use the word forceful because I need you to know that when I want something I usually stop at nothing to get it. Q.E.D," He gestures at the table. "I want to catch that son of a bitch who shot me, I might skip a meal, I might lose a friend, I might piss someone off. I'm sorry it has to be you, but might I remind you you decided to become my fucking mom. I never asked you to do any of this. I'm sorry that I don't say thanks enough or hold you at night, but the truth is hard to admit. The… The truth about you."

"About… Me?" Duck's crystal-clear blue eyes begin to tear up. "What…?"

"I want to catch that son of a bitch who shot me, but the truth is that I want you even more. Only thing I want more than to have you… is to not take you. Can you understand?" He releases her shoulders, turns around, leans against the doorway. "Can you see how fucking hard it is every night to see you walking around the apartment in your… in that, and not just leap on you? I don't think you know what you're in for if that happens."

"Don't know?" Shouts Duck, anger returning. "Oh, so now I'm some country bumpkin who doesn't know shit about shit? I know more than you think, Mr. Big City! And… I'm ready for it! So do your worst!" Her hands ball into fists, face determined. She glares at him so instensely, blue eyes like spotlight piercing him. He turns around, charges her, wraps his arms around her waist and draws her to him, takes her lips in a deep kiss. Lifts her and drops her on the bed.

Kicks the bedroom door closed behind him.

Thanks for reading! Please don't hesitate to leave any comments or critiques.


	4. Chapter 4

Foreword: I came to a dilemma in this chapter. I want my interpretations of the characters to reflect the era, which in this case involves a dose of casual racism. I'm not comfortable, however, with writing actual hateful terms in my story. I decided to go the "blank" route and put these in there: [ ]. Basically, just imagine something offensive going in the neat little box. Thanks as always for reading and enjoy.

Ballet studios are a good place to reflect on things, reflects Duck as she stretches out her thin arms in preparation for her usual weekday class. _Could be all the mirrors, _she thinks to herself, chuckling slightly. The truth is, the hardened ex-cowhand has never had so much on her mind at any given time. Life back in Population 465, Idaho was about as dull and simple as you could possibly get, and the sophistication of the fine arts is a boon to her; Not the cleverest of all girls but her particular combination of well-intentioned and underutilized provides her practically unlimited motivation in the face of hardship. In other words, for the first time in her 19 years, she's not bored as fuck.

As she grasps the barre and twists her torso around, eliciting a quiet _pop pop pop_, she witnesses a curious thing- all the dancers have converged in the studio's foyer, and the excited voices have drowned out the piano accompanist completely. _What in the heck is going on here? _Thinks the redhead, and after quickly stretching the other way- _pop pop pop_- she strides over to the throng. At first she can't make out the object of everyone's interest, but as she muscles her way through- all 90 pounds of her- it becomes clear that it's a person: a feminine form in a maroon leotard, untidy dark curls done up in a devil-may-care bun, _irritatingly_ fortunate figure in a pose of confident faux-humility. But it's not until she sees the woman's eyes that she recognizes her. It's the actress, Lady Rue Corvo, the movie star! She's smiling broadly and acting just _so _pleased to meet everyone and brightening up the place like a 60-watt bulb. It takes Duck a second to shake the starstruckness out of her head, but embarrassment wins out over her giddiness and without greeting the newcomer she gathers herself and returns to her place on the barre.

Eventually the hubbub dissolves, leaving the star to prepare and find a spot. And lo and behold if it isn't right next to Duck! As the practice routine begins and the dancers all start their rudiments in time with the accompanist- in this case a cheerful _Etudes-_style rag some would consider too jazzy but hey, this is Steel Cable, not Bright Lights- The celebrity whispers to the younger girl "That's some hair you've got there, sweetie."

On pointed toe and cranking out sequenced maneuvers mostly by reflex, the redhead blushes and responds, "I, uh, I keep meaning to get it cut."

The brunette raises her lithe arms, bends sideways. "Oh, now don't do that. It's lovely! I didn't mean anything by it." Duck senses she's attempting to use slang she considers too lowbrow for her, or maybe it's her slight Italian accent, but there's a tinge of foreign-ness in her pronunciation. It comes off as sophisticated. "What's your name?"

"I'm Duck! Just Duck, like the animal." Replies Duck. "I've never met anyone famous before… Am I supposed to ask for your name too, even though I already know it?"

Rue chuckles. "Oh, I supposed we've been introduced via a camera somewhere. It's nice to meet you, Duck, I don't know too many people in Steel Cable City if you can believe it."

"Well now, I really can't! A famous actress not knowing people?" The two continue to perform their stretching routine, following the cues from the senior dancers.

"I live in Palm Tree City whenever I'm shooting a picture. Only I'm going to play a ballerina in the next one I'm doing, so my Director's got me on these lessons to learn the steps, even though they'll use a double for all the dance scenes."

"Wow! They really are red…" Replies the girl absently, gazing at the actress' eyes. She clearly has been too preoccupied looking at the woman to listen to anything she's been saying. Suddenly realizing what she just said, she stops dead and turns a bright crimson, slapping both hands over her mouth. "Ohmygod, I can't believe I just said that…"

Rue begins to chuckle, but before she can forgive the awkward teen for her faux pas, a voice behind her sounds.

"_Mish Duck!_ I trost you are not heckling our _shpecial guesht_?" It's Mr. Katz, the bohemian wonder, and boy does he have a killer gleam in his dark eye. Six feet tall, thin as a whip, and weird as all get-out, Mr. Katz honestly tries Duck's willingness to overlook strangeness on a daily basis. Not just due to his extremely obvious lisp, or his bushy, prominent mustache, but mostly due to his complete obliviousness to social convention. A Russian by birth and with the accent (and facial hair) to prove it, he still stumbles over some words but if there's one phrase he never gets wrong, it's "_I'll have you marry me!_" which he bestows on at least one unlucky female every night. Miss a step? Proposal. Late for class? Proposal. Bungle an impromptu conversation with a beautiful scarlet-eyed starlet? Well…

"I undorshtand, and even accshept the fact that you haff trouble vith many off the shimple shteps off our beloved art. However I cannot overlook you causinck troble for a shtudent ash important ash Lady Rue Corvo!" A healthy amount of spit complements the expulsion of this phrase from his mustachioed mouth.

"Mr. Katz, I swear, I was-"

Rue's soothing, dark voice stops them both in their tracks. "Mr. Katz, I assure you, This young lady is absolutely not heckling me in the slightest. It's not the first time someone's reacted that way at my eye color. Someday they might be able to photograph me in color, but until then, people are just going to assume the posters are painted that way for effect… Even the painters don't believe they're real half the time."

Mr. Katz is already mesmerized by her words. "I shee. Very well them, I shupposhe I'll leafe you ladiesh to it, but if she irritatesh you in the shlightest- _Ash she doesh me-_ let me know vithout delay. You hear me, girl? Bother our dear guesht and _I'll have you marry me sho fast your head will shpin!"_

As soon as he's out of earshot, Duck quips "Great guy once you get to know him." Rue laughs cheerfully at this. The rest of the evening passes merrily, and the two spend the whole time chatting and discussing films and the city. Rue explains she'll be attending class for the month then it's off to film another motion picture in Palm Tree. It's an adapted parable of some Grimm Fairy Tales and the ballet Swan Lake but Rue assures her it's not just kids stuff- it's going to be about as dark and violent and sexy as they can get away with. Duck learns her father owns a pharmaceuticals company in town and her husband is an officer in the company, so she lives here most of the year, but every few months she gets on a train (Private luxury car, assumes the younger girl) to the California coast, and develops a tan that takes weeks to dissipate from her ivory skin. As the evening draws to a close, they bid each other goodnight and leave the studio looking forward to see each other again. Duck is amazed at what a kind and caring person Lady Rue Corvo is underneath her celebrity persona. She's already looking forward to spending another evening with her new friend.

"It's called Piuma. We got some boys in the lab working on it now, but what we know so far is that the mix of uppers and downers in this little pill can seriously screw with your noodle. Hallucinogens and depressants, I'm talking opium-derived shit, stimulants such as cocaine-"

"Hell, I can go to any drug store and buy some cocaine! What's the big deal about that, Commander?"

The older man narrows his eyes through the square frames of his bifocals. He's standing at the front of a briefing room with a piece of chalk, dressed in shirt sleeves, carelessly rolled up. His grey hair and wrinkled face make him seem much older than his 45 years. He chuffs out "Cocaine prepared for medical use isn't harmful to the body. The method of preparation involved in creating this type of cocaine strengthens the drug considerably, like a refined version."

The cop who sounded off before asks, earnestly but not altogether devoid of humor, "So like wine compared to brandy?"

"More like wine compared to the sourest vinegar you've ever tasted, only there's a memory element to it, so you won't even remember drinking it."

Detective Fakir finally pipes in. "Hold on, Sir. So you're saying it alters your memory?"

"We don't know in which way or for how long, but yes, anyone who takes Piuma will suffer such mental effects."

"And what about the addictive nature?"

"So far it would appear the drug isn't addictive at all- it contains chemical countermeasures to stop cravings after a hit. But why would the goddamn Corvos make a drug like this that's not only not addictive, but not addictive on purpose?"

"...The only reason I can think of is to appeal to high-profile clients, but that's not the Italians' style. It bothers me what you said about mental effects."

"Oh? Fakir, have you got something, my boy?"

"Well, it's just that weird mind-altering things like this, especially opiates, are really the Chinese's cup of tea… If you'll pardon my expression. What are the Corvos doing with them?"

The Commander taps his knobby chin with a finger, eyes gazing absently at the ceiling. "Yes… Some of these parts had to come through the chinese-controlled shipping lanes… Detective, take 2 officers, go to Chinatown, and get whatever info you can on this drug." He turns to the crowd of cops. "The rest of you, tap your usual sources for any info on where this shit is being manufactured. Don't bother coming back before 3- and you'd better have some dirt, or I'm gonna kick your asses right out again. Get to work!"

The other waiter's expression goes from incredulous to shocked even as he is lunged upon by the Venetian. With quickness almost impossible to track with the eye, he pins the poor man, and showers his poor victim with blows, bloodying his face and bruising his ribcage. He doesn't stop until well after the poor man is unconscious.

His head whips around to stare Mytho directly in his pale gold eye.

He _is_ Mytho.

With an audible "Aaah!" Mytho lunges forward, the dark restaurant disappearing between one blink and the next and becoming the huge sun-streaked bedroom, all decorated in cream, ivory and mother-of-pearl. The heavy sheets cling to his bare legs, soaked with sweat, and his pajama shirt as well. Beside him, Rue is stirring, negligee straps falling about her blushing shoulders, dotted with freckles.

"Whazzamater?" she mumbles, rubbing an eye with her fist Her dark hair falls around her beautiful pale face, eyes half-lidded with sleep and blinking. The effect is _shattering_, but for once Mytho's not paying attention.

He doesn't know weather to tell her about his dream or not, but for her sake he decides it would be a bad idea. Denying everything, though, would be harder- the evidence was undeniable. "Oh my dear, I woke you up, I'm sorry." He leans towards her and kisses her forehead, then rolls out of bed. "I must have had a nightmare- it's been some time sine I had one of those. I can't even remember the last!" and with that, he vanishes into the bathroom.

Rue gazes at the Swiss cuckoo clock she brought home from the Alps, which clashes horribly with the decorations in the rooms but she insisted on keeping in place. She sits up in bed, knowing that trying to go back to sleep would be pointless, but not quite ready to get up. She begins to stretch out, her muscles complaining about last night's overuse, both in _and_ out of the studio.

Meanwhile, in the large tiled bathroom, Mytho goes over the dream in his head over and over. What does it mean? The logical conclusion to draw from this is he imagines he's the one taking Piuma. But that's impossible- for one thing, if he were addicted to Piuma, he would either have been on it last night (in which case he wouldn't remember), or have been compelled to take it when he saw the symbol on the Don's cigarette case, and neither case was true. Second, even though obviously he wouldn't remember what he did, there were no glaring gaps in his memory- if he'd been taking the stuff, there'd be blocks missing. Then again, how did he know that? _Maybe the drug gives you fake ones, or there's no gap at all and you just remember falling asleep or something, _He thinks to himself.

One thing is for sure. There are too many questions and not enough answers here. And there's only one place to go for answers on mind-altering drugs in Steel Cable City. Chinatown.

One of the young officers wrinkles his nose at a red object suspended from a thin metal hook behind the window of a butcher's shop. At one point the reddened hoof was part of a pig; now it's something else entirely, barely discernible from a desktop ornament like the ones in the last 3 shops the 2 officers and 1 detective passed. "What the hell? How do these [ ]s eat this kind of shit?" He blurts, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "They don't even cut the heads off the ducks before they roast 'em!"

At the mention of slaughtering waterfowl, Fakir stiffens reflexively, but just for a moment. The whole ducks hanging in the window near the various pork parts actually would match Duck's hair pretty well in color… but thoughts like these are a distraction. There's no time to be thinking about her long, smooth legs or cute little belly button when a lunatic is on the loose. Or her softly sloping shoulders, when her arms are held in forfeiture above her head on the bedsheets…

"Say, Detective, you got any leads or are we just window shopping?" Asks Autor earnestly. He's dressed in his black patrolman's uniform, checkered hat and all, holding a string-bound brown paper package in one hand and standing in a nonchalant pose, glasses almost visibly slipping down his nose. He adjusts them.

"Well, now that you mention it, no. No I don't, and I'm sorry to say I don't even know where to start… What's in that package, anyway?"

"Oh, it's uh, _nyu rou_- that's beef in Chinese. I really like the stuff they sell here."

"Wait, you speak Chinese? Why was I not informed of this?" The Detective's tone is forceful but not angry. "Can you get along with the locals?"

"Hold your horses, boss. I never said I could speak Chinese, I just know a few words here and there- When I was a kid my Ma and I would come shopping here. I still come from time to time for the groceries."

"Great, so you only know food?"

"I might be able to ask a few things. But I don't-"

"Go ask the owner of this shop if there's been any adjustment in his protection fee lately."

"Boss, I don't- Well, OK, I think I can do that. Gimme a sec."

The young man enters the shop and slides up to the counter. Fakir is watching with interest.

"_Qingwen, xiansheng. Zuijin, nimen de_… uh, 'protection money', uh, _fang xianjin gen shang ge yue de chabudo yiyang ma? Duoshao qian?_"

The Chinese man behind the counter gawks incredulously, then he points to a poster on the wall, an angry expression on his face. The poster is a lithographed print of a map of Hong Kong. Autor droops as he looks at it.

"Boss, this guy's from Hong Kong, not mainland China."

"Gimme one reason why I give a shit."

"Well, they speak Cantonese in _Xianggang_- I mean Hong Kong- And I only know Mandarin."

"Well, then, you take Lysander and go track down some Mainlanders. I'm going to do some digging of my own. We'll meet up here at one thirty for lunch, and then bullshit a report for the commander so we don't get fired. I'd go with you but listening to your Chinese gives me a headache. Good luck."

"This is usually where one says something like 'I'm going to ask you one more time.' But I'm not going to ask you one more time. I asked you once and that should have been enough. Joe?"

A shaving razor unfurls from within the massive hand of the driver and sets in motion. As it arcs towards the bound man, it catches a beam of sunlight that shines through a crack in the poorly-tiled celling. For the briefest of instants, it glistens.

"However!" The cool voice sounds again, stopping the blade a hair's width from the man's throat. "However, on consideration- I could have been a bit more clear on my terms. It would be an awful shame to for you to die satisfied in your bravery. Therefore, let me paint you a little picture in words. When I said 'tell me where the Piuma comes from or you die,' I didn't mean just you- I meant you and your entire family. But, since to be honest- and I admit this with reluctance- _I can't tell you fucking people apart_, I'll have to just start burning down city blocks, one by one. Who knows how many people will die? Probably hundreds." The razor hovers unwavering before the man's neck. Dust floats through the sunbeam.

A whimper escapes the man's lips. He understands little of the short, pale-haired man's English, but certain words are unmistakable; Die, Kill.

Family.

"Naturally we'll board the doors first- wouldn't want anyone escaping. You know, the children will probably survive the longest, seeing as smoke rises and it's the smoke that does the job- suffocates them, you know. Yes, their last conscious actions will be begging their mothers, begging them to wake up…"

"Stop! Please. Just stop." The thickly-accented Chinaman man barks, a trickle of blood escaping as soon as he opens his mouth. The effort causes a new whip of pain to slash across his face, a mass of bruises and cuts. "I'll tell you, and then just kill me fast!"

"Well then! I'm glad you've come around. I wouldn't want this to have gotten difficult." A genuinely warm smile adorns the young man's face. Joe's razor is withdrawn and vanishes within his coat sleeve.

"They bring the opium for the drug in through the Peaceful Ocean Fish Market- I'm a worker there." He explains the timing and the operation as Mytho listens, ghastly expression unchanging. When all is said and done, He's got more than enough information to get what he needs. When the man is finished, he slumps in his binding, ready for death. He closes his eyes. He is surprised, however- Instead of his jugular vein, the razor finds the ropes holding him and in moments he's free.

"I hear Gold Mountain City is nice this time of year. Lots of your kind there too. Go disappear." The short man hands him a paper bag and turns to leave. "Joe? I feel like a cup of tea. Bring the car around to get me in half an hour- Whatever you like 'till then." And with that, they're gone. As the old room's only door opens, everything within comes into view- boxes, crates, hay. He's stunned to be alive. He wipes the sweat off his brow. He looks into the bag.

It's more money then he's ever seen in his life- must be hundreds of dollars. The man told him "Disappear." the door swings shut and darkness closes around him as the impact of the word sinks in. The last time anyone in Steel Cable City sees Chen Baishan, he's boarding a train at the city's massive gothic station, wife's wrist clutched firmly in his hand and holding his young daughter. The city's memory of him disappears before the steam clears as the massive engine pulls away.

"Ok, boys- what have we got?" Fakir runs his fingers through his long untidy hair, then ties it back with a new piece of string. Fitting his fedora on straight, he leans back in his chair.

"Well, what we got doesn't amount to much, but we got a name… Peaceful Ocean Fish Market. Apparently all kinda shit goes through there, including most of the drugs coming into the city from the direction of New York. I don't know why it's called peaceful ocean… That's what they call the Pacific, but all the fish there is Atlantic-caught."

"Autor, most people have a filter in their heads that separates useful information from bullshit. Why is it you don't?"

"Jesus, Detective… Just trying to broaden horizons here… Talk about pearls before-"

"Finish that sentence, _I dare you_. But anyway, good job. The boss'll be happy with that. The next step for is now is to find a connection to the Corvos so when they take down the [ ] fish smugglers, we can get those pasta-eating fucks with 'em."

Officer Lysander chuckles. "Heh. Fish smugglers."

"Oh, grow up." Fakir straightens up a bit and looks around. "How long's it gonna take before we get some service here?" They are seated in the middle of the tea house, and despite this no one has taken their order in 15 minutes. "Autor, would you remind these [ ] assholes that we're Steel Cable PD?" He slumps back in his chair as Officer Autor in full uniform stands up and begins trying to get a waiter's attention.

"_Duibuqi- duibuqui xiansheng, women..._ Boss, they're ignoring me. Can't we just leave? Oh, never mind." An exasperated-looking waiter comes over with a scratchpad. "Umm, _yi hu lu cha, _uh, what do you guys want?"

"What I want is a beer, but since that's not happening- just some tea I guess." Fakir's eyes are closed as he sighs out his order.

"Same," Nods Lysander.

"_Gei zanmen… shenme cha dou xing. Xiexie."_

"I'm holding you responsible if they poison us." Says Lysander, nervously. Without opening his eyes, Fakir nods in agreement. His hat slips down his forehead.

"Wow, Rue, I've never eaten at a hotel before- everything is so fancy!" The pair of young ladies are sitting in a sunroom attached to a massive hotel in the middle of downtown Steel Cable. The furniture is all in wicker with pillows tied on the chairs with string. A gramophone in the corner livens the atmosphere with a pleasant waltz, beneath a bill announcing nightly live music and dancing. There are festive palms decorating the seafoam-painted walls, potted with care and imported from… Florida, probably. The effect of the room is tropical, fun and festive.

"Oh, this is simply the best little place for lunch. Whoever designed the place had been around, too- the first time I walked in I thought I was back in Palm Tree City- or the Caribbean! And they play the best music, too- they even have this new style of island jazz called Calypso that's _so_ popular on the coast right now. We've got to come back on Friday night- bring your fella, while we're at it, we can make it a double date!" When Rue Corvo smiles, it's impossible not to smile as well.

Duck fumbles with removing her hat, rust-colored to match her coat and bedecked with white feathers. "I don't know much about Island Jazz, but I sure do love the regular kind! It's amazing how you can just buy a vinyl disc and a machine and it'll play music for you. I've seen so many amazing things since I've been here- I'd never even seen an automobile until I came here, if you don't count the busses- but now someone's inventing something amazing every day!"

Rue laughs, a genuine, contented laugh. "It's true. How did people live before they had what we have? But then again, we've been sitting here for a while and no one has come by to take our order- instead of an automatic jazz combo or orchestra on a disc, someone should invent an automatic waiter!"

The henpecked waiter arrives at last, and after ordering their overpriced island-style meals, Rue's disconcertingly red eyes narrow slightly. "Listen, Duck, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. Promise me you won't be mad."

Duck meets the actress's gaze. "Upset? What could you possibly be talking about?"

"Well, know I should have asked you first, but I went ahead and invited you as my plus one to the premiere of Captive of the Crow King. I want you to meet my director- or to be more accurate I want him to meet you."

"WHAT!" Blurts Duck, bolt upright and suddenly gripping the table as though it were handlebars on a bicycle. "Me? Meet Gerald Charon!"

"Get this. I mentioned you at my screen test yesterday- He's very interested in casting you in the next picture, the ballet one. Didn't take much... I just told him how cute you look in a leotard!"

A reddish tinge stains the girl's cheeks. "Oh, Rue… I don't know what to say! thank you so much! I never thought in a million years… But oh, do I have to do a monologue or something?"

"Oh, I think all you have to do is not embarrass yourself at the screening, and everything will fall into place. I'll make sure of it. Oh, look!" A waiter is bringing their dishes now- grilled Tilapia on a bed of shredded cabbage for Duck, seasoned with a myriad of spices she's never heard of before, served with something that looks like lengthwise strips of fired banana but Rue assured her it tastes like potatoes. Rue smiles upon seeing her meal, and exotic dish of various shellfish diced raw with bits of this and that chopped up in it, served in a little heap with a lemon wedge and glistening invitingly. "It's called ceviche." She says, upon noticing Duck's curiosity. "I've been wanting to try it. Apparently it's 2,000 years old."

"That stuff?" Duck replies.

"No, silly, not this fish! The style of eating it. Raw, with citrus and herbs. It's slimming, too- no fatty cream sauce or frying."

"I dunno, I'll take mine cooked. Hope you like it, though…"

"Here goes…" Rue squeezes the lemon over the pile of whatsit and raises a spoonful to her lips. As she chews, her expression shifts- first surprise, then shock, then what can only be described as horror. She finally manages to swallow, then pushes the dish away with finality, calls the waiter back over, and asks him for a hamburger.

"OK, So we've got the place, we can B.S. the time…" Lysander takes a sip of his Oolong tea and continues. "Now we just need a who, and we could blow the top off this thing like a popcorn kettle."

"I might be able to track down the name of one of the bosses, someone high-up enough to be _incommunicado_ with the Italians on this whole operation." Autor is holding his teacup in both hands, curling wisps of steam fogging his glasses slightly.

"Stick to Chinese, Autor. _Incommunicado _means _out_ _of_ communication." Replies Fakir, who has been fighting a losing battle with his hat ever since they walked into the tea shop. "That said, good job on this stuff- I've never really liked tea before but this silk stocking stuff is really tasty."

He lifts the ceramic white-and-blue pot to pour another cup. Without warning or explanation, it explodes into a thousand shards, sending scalding-hot tea everywhere. Time seems to slow to a crawl as Fakir looks in the direction of the noise, and sure enough…

A short-ish, white-haired man is standing outside, beyond a pane of glass spiderwebbed with cracks, a bullet hole at their epicenter. The cracks and missing pieces distort him and discolor him in places where shards have fallen to shatter on the sidewalk, but for Fakir he's well within range. He's pointing a luger pistole parabellum at the detective, suit jacket unbuttoned, expression unreadable through the network of cracks in the glass. But there's no doubting that it's him.

"Mytho!" He shouts, standing up and reaching for his revolver, seemingly not affected by the tea soaking into the arm of his suit. Truth is it's burning his shooting hand like crazy, but there's no time to do anything about it. In a flash he's drawn a bead on the gangster and pulled the trigger twice, haze of adrenaline drowning out his surroundings. The pane of glass gains several new holes, objects to his left and right explode, and someone has kicked the table over. As he's about to fire his third shot at the man's heart, he feels a hand gripping him by his coat and yanking him down behind the cover of the upturned table.

"Detective, What the fuck-" Autor begins, fumbling with his service handgun. Lysander is lying on the floor cursing, clutching at his shoulder, crimson with blood.

"It's him! It's fucking Mytho! Let go!" He stands up again in time to see the entire pane spill from its frame and shards of glass flow like water across the floor and sidewalk outside. The man is nowhere to be seen. "Fuck! We're not letting him get away, come on!" In no time flat he's past the table, across the floor and on the street, looking desperately in all directions. There's no limousine in sight, no sign of any automobile in fact. No white-haired man running, no bodyguard waiting to ambush him. He disappeared like a ghost. Fakir's fury is too great to just let go of, so with fists clenched he screams "MYTHO! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! I'M NOT GONNA REST 'TILL YOU'RE BEHIND BARS, HEAR ME? I'M GONNA PUT YOU AWAY MYSELF OR DIE TRYING!"

Somewhere, in an ally nearby, a slight chuckle issues from the cheshire grin of a white-haired young man. His cream-colored suit is becoming grimy from negotiating the filthy passages, but he doesn't seem to care. Blood issues from a wound on his left arm, and as he presses it with his opposite hand he calmly says, "Well now, Brother. That sounds like an interesting challenge… Needless to say, I accept." His laugh echoes down the alley long after he's gone.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's Notes: Thank you for your patience and for reading my story. I don't want this to stretch out too far, but it looks like this isn't gonna get finished in the next chapter, or even 2. Imagine, if you will, a coming attraction for the next chapter that involves a fancy-dress ball, secrets coming to light, girls kissing girls, and probably some really cool violence.

Fortunately, I've had more time to write lately, so hopefully that keeps up. 'Till next time, this is Tinyangrypuppy reminding you to eat healthy… Oh who am I kidding, I just polished off a plate of hot wings and a 20 oz. of stella. You all take it easy, OK?


	5. Chapter 5

Pinot Noir ch. 5 (part 1)

"Remind me. Why am I doing this again?" Fakir asks, fiddling with his black bowtie. He's standing in the middle of the room, tracking Duck's progress around him, the motion of his head further complicating the bowtie procedure. Both of them are half-dressed, each new to their high-class couture- Fakir rented a tuxedo on Duck's orders and Rue had a dress ordered for Duck especially. Putting it on is a multi-part process; she had to go buy all manner of new undergarments and whatnot, much of which employ technology Fakir hadn't known existed. Mercifully, he was excluded from that part of the adventure (he acted disappointed). But his keen detective's brain was piecing the thing's arcane function together, noting the _lift_ it provided to key parts of his orange-haired lover's physique. Despite that, his gripes continue as he tugs ineffectually at the strip of silk. "This thing was not cheap, and by that I mean _very _not cheap."

"I keep telling you, we're going to a big fancy film premier! It's not just a premier, either, it's strictly cast and crew, plus friends. We're going to be the first people in the world to see it! Rue invited me 'specially and told me to bring you along, she _so_ wants to meet you!" As the man adjusts his cufflinks and starts on his shirt garters, his gaze follows her around- she's tugging at a thing on a thing and then putting a thing on over it, before withdrawing a pair of stockings from a little bag with a French word on it- he recognizes stockings, he's not stupid- and as they travel up her lithe, pale legs, his activity stops altogether. "Hey! Hurry up, we've still got the hairdressers in an hour!"

He gets back to work, and once the elastic bands are firmly pulling his shirt down and free or wrinkles, he begins to don his trousers, jet black with the classic stripe on the side. By the time he's done save the coattails and tie (he gave up), Ahiru is fully dressed in a beautiful blue evening gown, sparkling with sequins and ensconced with a cream-colored fur around her neck. "Oh, Duck. Wow." Is all he can say.

She giggles. "A year ago, my idea of dressing up was a flannel shirt and not being covered in cow shit." She twirls around, showing off the beautiful outfit from all angles. Her long hair, cheery color perfectly offset by the brilliant color of the dress, flows behind her as she spins. Her big blue eyes shine, full of spirit and joy like always.

"Mmm. You're so sexy when you talk about excrement." Fakir draws her to him, snaking a hand to the small of her back. "If I wasn't aware of the logistical nightmare it would create, I'd have you here and now."

She giggles again. "Oh, stop! I can't wait for tonight, though- I want to know what it's like when rich people _do it_!" She runs a small hand down his tuxedo shirt. All the layered fabric is unfamiliar to her.

Fakir laughs heartily. "God, a third of their income must go towards buying new supportive undergarments that get broken or ripped in fits of passion. I know I'm gonna rip that whatsit of yours to tatters."

"Please, do it now. I can hardly breathe in this thing." She stands on tiptoes and kisses him. But before he can actually cause any damage to her fastidiously-donned garments, though, she breaks away from him, and squeezes his hand. "I'm going to go do my makeup, I'll only be a sec."

As she vanishes into the bedroom, he watches her go. The whatsit, the inner one… whatever its intended purpose is, it's working. Fakir smiles to himself, and with a quite whistle, goes back to fiddling with his bowtie.

They make quite an odd sight; Lady Rue Corvo in full regalia dragging along a shorter, thinner redhead whose head seems stuck looking straight upwards. She keeps grabbing Rue's gown and pointing at little details of the decoration- the ornate ceiling of the hotel ballroom, the various actresses and actor's wives' clothing, the band along one wall playing a cheerful number for small orchestra. A plump lady is singing but the words are lost over the din of 300 socialites socializing.

At the center of all the tuxedoed men and bejeweled women stands one Mr. Gerald Charon, a severe but pleasant-looking chap in his late 30's with graying temples and thick eyebrows. By the way he stands, figures Duck, he's done some military service- She learned to tell from the other cattle hands back on the ranch where she worked in her younger days, just a couple of little details but they're there. He stands very straight, but doesn't appear to be making any effort to do so. His clothing is immaculate, but many details show signs of permissible personalization- a neat pocket square, tie bar and pins matching silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. When he raises his drink she sees his cufflinks match too. He turns to look at them before they're within earshot of his conversation with a bespectacled Asian man.

"…And here she is now! Lady Rue Corvo, please meet my esteemed colleague, Sato-San all the way from Tokyo! Mr. Sato here is one of the world's finest cinematographers." Gerald Charon's deep voice rumbles. The two men turn to face the oncoming pair of women.

Rue glides up to the pair of well-dressed men, Duck trailing behind her and exhibiting approximately none of her aristocratic grace. She's wearing a deep red gown cut from a shiny material, all draped with wispy translucent flourishes that trail behind her. Her diamond necklace sparkles as bright as her blood-red eyes, dark eye shadow making them appear brighter still. The dress's cut is _generous_ in a manner of speaking (some might even say _charitable)_. Her pale skin seems to glow in the dim room, and there's a lot of it to see glowing. One thing's for sure: She could never get away with wearing the gown on camera.

The starlet smiles radiantly at the bespectacled cameraman, and the lights in the room all seem to dim a bit. "Let's see… _Hajimemashite_, Sato-San." She performs a perfunctory (but somehow still elegant) half-bow, taking care to keep all of her anatomy accounted for, and upon his returning a lower one, beams again. "I'm _such_ and huge fan of your works. I do believe I've seen them all! Or at least, all the ones that played here in the states."

The Japanese man's serious expression dissipates, leaving a smile on his Oriental features. "Why, to be complimented so by the world's greatest- and most beautiful- star of the screen! A greater honor I could not imagine." He takes a sip from a small ceramic cup Duck didn't notice before. "I invite you to try this _subarashi_- excuse me, this excellent _sake_. I am _aware_ of your prohibition… But a joyous occasion without _sake_ is like a clear spring day without falling cherry blossoms… or a camera without a lens! After all, there's no prohibition in Tokyo!"

He brandishes a lacquered-wood box, and from within it he withdraws 2 more tiny cups, fills them with a mysterious whitish drink, and hands them to the women. Upon handing the cup to Duck, he appears to notice her for the first time. "_Ara_! No need to be shy, my dear. Ha ha! After a cup of _osake_, your temperament will be as warm as the color of your hair! _Kanpai!_" And with that, the four toast and drink, Duck a little more reluctantly than the others. The milky, smoothly alcoholic drink has a complex taste and at first she doesn't like it, but soon a warm feeling spreads through her belly and she wants more.

"So, Rue, I see you weren't lying about your friend. Miss Duck, I've heard many good things about you… Descriptions of your good looks fall well short of the mark. I'm Gerald Charon." Says Gerald Charon, scooping up a small hand and planting a quick kiss on the back of it. "My leading lady here won't rest until I feature you in a picture. She can be very convincing, too…"

"Convincing?" Asks Duck, nervously. The sake and the kiss work in tandem to spread a light blush on her cheeks. From behind Charon, Rue winks at her and Mr. Sato chuckles cheerfully.

"Oh, don't take me the wrong way, we're both married. But how can I possibly say no when she looks at me with those big, red eyes… I mean, come on, they're _scary!"_ And with that, he laughs uproariously, continuing even after Rue punches him playfully on the shoulder. Duck can't help but smile. "So, think you can take a break from whatever you do and come out to California for this next one? There's a role for a younger girl in it, and seeing as you dance ballet too, you'd do quite nicely. Whaddayasay?"

Duck notices her tiny cup had been refilled. She downs the thing in one and practically shouts "Absolutely! I won't let you down, Mr. Charon! I'll work hard every day!"

He closes his eyes and smiles. "Ha ha ha! Just what I like to hear. We're catching an express next month, you're gonna love springtime on the coast. Beach weather every day- and they wear a lot less out there, let me tell you! Ah ha ha ha!"

Mr. Sato chimes in. "I'll drink to that! _Kanpai!_"

"Stupid party, Stupid Tuxedo, cost me 5 damn bucks, lousy…" Fakir's mumbled ruminations continue as he stalks along the room's walls, looking for a place to sit down and enjoy the non-alcoholic beverage he had wasted no time turning into a _very_ alcoholic one, with the help of his hidden whiskey flask. He was told to stay away from Duck until she could talk to Mr. fancy director man for a while, and he doesn't know anyone else… Hell, he doesn't even go to the movies! But his complaints are stifled immediately, upon noticing a familiar face. A long, lean face with a pointy beard belonging to a tall man whose portrait hands on practically every wall in the entire police station. It's the chief, Ross L. Meyer, unmistakably. Unmistakably, because he's turned out in _full uniform_. Also unmistakably, because with senses true to a career cop, he notices he's being observed in moments. Surprisingly though, upon looking at Fakir, his expression brightens.

"Aren't you Detective Fakir?" He asks, effortlessly parting the crowd over to Fakir. There's so much metal on his jacket he's like a walking mirror ball, only somewhat more gaunt.

"Um. Yes sir, that's me, Detective Fakir. Is there anything I can do for you, Chief?"

"I think you mean, 'how did you know who I am.'"

"Well, yes sir, I was wondering that."

"You should have received an award when you returned to the force from your hospital stay. Did you notice the signature on it- my signature- was genuine and not a stamp?"

"Actually, sir, I did."

"Of course, wouldn't be much of a detective if something like that escaped you. Now, fancy office and big hat I may have, but I assure you- I started out just like you, son. When a man in my force goes down, I know about it- I _care_ about it."

Fakir swallows. Even through the warmth of the man's tone, there's a seriously scary note. "Sir, I'd like you to know that I'm pursuing leads into a connection between illegal drug trade through Chinatown and the Corvo mob."

The older man claps his hands, smiling like a child. "I expected no less! Well that's wonderful, I've been after those greaseballs- er, pardon my French- since their current don was in his 20's. If you can get them on anything, I'll be overjoyed." His tone returns to its previous, serious note.

"See, here's the thing- I spent my entire career working my way up, from beat cop to detective, to field agent in a series of specialized units- organized crime, homicide, etcetera- like a character in a story. I was out there, in the thick of it, doing my part. But eventually, like all great career men, I got stuck behind a desk, where I remain. Rising from desk to bigger desk meant very little to me- I just wanted to go out once in a while and get a thrill. I spent all day writing paperwork about other officers' adventures- I realized I had gone from character to author. So what does one do when he's effectively writing the book of crime and punishment in Steel Cable City?"

Fakir looks down at the ginger ale in his hands, hoping the chief doesn't notice the liberal amount of whiskey he's spiked it with. "Well, sir, I suppose… Give it a happy ending?"

"You're exactly right, my boy. So when I see something happen like a fresh new detective getting shot, I want to give him something he can feel made the whole horrible experience worthwhile."

"Sir?"

"I'm saying, I took an interest in your work, and it's provided me a lot to be proud of. Every time I see your name on a piece of paper it's near words like 'outstanding' or 'great progress.' It's pretty clear you're ready for some more responsibility."

Fakir takes a drink. He remains silent.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Fakir. You're moving up to the organized crime unit starting Monday- might as well _buy_ that tux." And with that, he turns and walks away.

Fakir takes another drink. He's trying to figure out if his keen detective's mind is playing tricks on him, but in just a moment- "Oh, one more thing. About that young lady you came in with, the redhead who's been talking with Charon and Lady Rue- Just a reminder. There are a lot of _benefits_ to getting married when you're in the SCPD." And the tall man vanishes again.

Fakir gulps the rest of his drink. He remains silent until the man is gone. Then he says quietly to himself, "Lieutenant Fakir."

He grins.

"Oh Duck, I'm so proud of you! Can you believe it? You're going to be an actress!"

"Wow, Rue, I mean, just wow! I never thought in a million years- Thank you so much! I can't thank you enough! "

Rue gazes at the younger girl, tears of joy in her blue eyes sparkling like jewels. They've retreated to a small closet repurposed as a powder room for the event, a mirror and electric light hastily set up inside it not masking the small room's original purpose. The cheap bulb isn't even part of the room- it's taped in, with the cable running out. It's not really big enough for them both. Rue likes it that way. She takes the redhead's hand in hers. "You don't have to thank me. I just like doing nice things for my friends. You feel the same way, right? I read about you saving your detective in the paper, and you didn't even know him!"

Duck looks surprised. "You know about that? About Fakir getting attacked?"

"Yes, dear- to be honest that's one of the reasons I chose Mr. Katz's studio to practice dancing, It was mentioned you attend there. But when you turned out to be such a lovely person, and really… just so lovely…" Rue blushes, expression telling of admiration, and maybe something else. "Duck. Do you like me?"

"Why, Rue! Of course I do, I mean…" Duck fumbled with her words, and suddenly noticed how small the dimply-lit room was- she and Rue were pressed together slightly in order to both fit, which with the way Rue was acting made her a little nervous. It was also getting uncomfortably warm. "You're so, I don't know, elegant, and beautiful-"

"Duck. Please don't hate me for this." And with that, Rue leans toward the smaller girl and kisses her, softly but with no hesitation. As she presses her red lips to Duck's, she closes any space that existed between them, and puts a hand on the girl's back- but it doesn't feel like Fakir's hand. It doesn't feel anything like Fakir. Rue's hands are softer, her lips are sweeter. They don't taste like cigarettes and gin. Duck's eyes are wide open at first, and she sees Rue's are closed. She knows she has to make a decision.

Rue's hands snake up the girl's back, hooking under her arms to her freckled shoulders. She presses herself against the girl, pushes her against the wall- gently, softly. She deepens the kiss, lips parting and tongue stroking the other girl's. Duck realizes there's no decision to be made. Her eyes close, and she dives into the other girl, kissing her back with passionate abandon.

The cheap light bulb taped to the ceiling flickers and dies. Neither one notices.

"GET THE FUCK OUT! COME ON YOU USELESS PIECE OF- YEAH! YEAH!" Mytho screams, half his torso extended from the window of a speeding limousine, waving his beloved Luger in the air and slapping the door. The automobile is swerving like a slaloming skier, leaving serpentine streaks on the street and sending squeals skyward. The gangster's hat blew away blocks back, but he didn't seem to notice, he's been too busy- no, he's been having too much_ fun_- shooting at the pursuant black autos, full of furious Chinese not-actually-dockhands. There's a sack of something in the back seat next to him, something he and Joe had to kill a lot of smugglers to get (so it must be valuable). They're not taking it sitting down, either. "YEAH, YOU [ ] COCKSUCKERS! YOU WANT THIS SHIT BACK YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO COME AND GET IT!" He expends the rest of his magazine at the car in front, hitting the passenger's seat gunman but missing the driver. Each shot sends a casing flying happily upwards. One of the headlights explodes in sparks.

This is not Joe's first gunfight chase. He's been around the block, so to speak, enough times to know to stay the hell away from Corvo territory- gotta ditch the creeps first. This is, however, the first time he's seen Mytho so utterly batshit crazy. They told him they might see this kind of shit from the young man when they put him on his medicine, but up to a few days ago, his episodes hadn't been nearly as severe. As his appointed Driver, he was put in charge of all aspects of the Boss's health and safety as well as transportation- in fact, despite the title, driving is literally the least of his concerns. Well, in most cases, anyway.

"Boss! I'm gonna give you a clear shot- take out the driver and one of the front tires. Only one! Then we're gonna go right, real fast, so you got about a second, then get back in. Got it?"

"FUCKING DO IT! HA HA, YEAH!" Mytho slides the spent magazine diagonally out of the grip of his pistol and clicks a new one in. Joe begins a right turn, yanks the handbrake back, whips out the rear of the car, and points it straight towards the road they're about to tear down. For a brief second, Mytho is looking down the iron sights right at the driver's forehead.

He pulls the trigger, sending a process in motion that begins with a tiny hammer hitting a tiny dot on a 9mm round in the pistol's chamber and ends in the driver's brains spread out in a vague fan shape all over the back seat of his car. In milliseconds, the mechanisms within the handgun have pushed another round into the chamber and returned the entire process back to its initial state. One happy little casing is sent skyward. With complete confidence in this system, Mytho adjusts his aim to the front left wheel of the vehicle, and begins the process all over again. This time, it's the wheel that explodes, causing the speeding car to slump forward on one side, carriage sending up sparks as it skids along the street, then it shrugs and begins to turn, the simply spins around once. It would have spun around again, if not for the following car smashing into it at 75 miles per hour. The resulting noise is pretty much the best thing Mytho has ever heard. Two happy little casings.

As the limousine peels away, the muffled sound of an explosion and a plume of smoke rising over the buildings assures Mytho they won't be pursued any more. "Ha ha! Great job, Joe! God, look at all this shit- can't wait to find out what it is…" He hefts the probably-valuable bag a couple times. "Anyway, we'd better lie low for a while. How 'bout a little vacation- Maybe Iron Lake? or we could go all the way to Board Walk, but we'd have to cross a lot of state borders…"

"Sure thing, boss. Let's get out of here, head east, and decide on the road. Hey, Boss, what do you think that is?" He points across the white-haired man and out of the right window.

"What? What what is?" Asks Mytho, peering out. The last thing he sees is a group of alcohol picketers in front of a former bar he knows to currently be a speakeasy. Then Joe's blackjack sends him into a deep, deep sleep.

"Sorry, boss… Just following orders." Mumbles the driver, as he pulls a U-turn and begins to drive back to Don Corvo's mansion.

"Who's first? Been waiting to do this for a while…" Fakir chuckles to himself, walking into his and Duck's apartment. Duck is close on his heels, unsure of the meaning behind his words, but nervous nonetheless of his cheeriness. "Oh, yeah! I hate this thing." He crosses the living room to a decorative plate given to him by someone (he honestly has no recollection), and simply drops it on the floor, reveling in the sound of it shattering on the hardwood.

"Fakir! What are you doing?" Duck asks, concernedly. She had no feelings about the plate one way or another, but seeing Fakir so recklessly break something has set her thoroughly on edge. "Stop!"

"Oh, I'm just getting started." He replies, taking off his hat and tossing it on the table. He points to the shiny bar on one of his lapels, says "This," and then the white Steel Cable Police patch that only sergeants and above wear, "And this, are going to make sure we're living in style from now on. Come on, there's gotta be something in here you want to break."

Duck looks around helplessly. "Well, I guess- I really don't like the curtains much-"

Fakir sidles up to her, hugs her, and mumbles into her hair "Well then tear them the hell up." She giggles.

The pair had just came back from the swearing in ceremony in which several dozen sergeants and Fakir got their long-awaited silver bar, mark of a major step up in their careers, or in the case of Fakir, two major steps up. Major steps up in his paychecks, too, and Fakir got his first one already. That plus the month's speakeasy collection money has him giddy, and after wrestling with the idea of moving yet again and deciding not too, he's settled on a shopping spree and a nice meal with his girlfriend. But before he can redecorate, he has to dedecorate.

He loosens his collar and yanks his necktie out as Duck tentatively grips the ugly yellow curtains in both hands and looks over her shoulder at him for one last reassurance. He smiles and nods. She yanks with all her strength and down comes the beams and curtains all, with a _thunk_ of wood hitting wood, and she giggles again. "Okay, I can see why you wanted to do this. let's break some shit."

Fakir's finished unbuttoning his service shirt and carefully takes it off, laying it flat next to his hat. Much more comfortable in his t-shirt, he windmills one arm and then the other, and then walks over to a crummy, fragile old clock that doesn't work most of the time, and punches the _shit_ out of it. Duck is bouncing around behind him, stomping on something, and laughing like a child. Her behavior doesn't match the fine dress she's waring at all, so Fakir slinks up behind her, catches her mid-hop, and tosses her bodily onto the couch, leaping on top of her. Her face is flushed from exertion and she grins. "You beast! Was this your plan all along?"

"Not quite." He replies, reaching under her for the hooks and loops of her dress, and undoing them one by one, poking her all up and down her spine. She squirms, wriggling out of the garment, and in just her underwear she rolls off the couch and springs upwards again. She pushes him over onto the couch, dives onto him, and pins his arms on either side of his head. They both know he could easily wrench out of her grip, but he doesn't, curious about what she's going to do.

"You looked so handsome up there on stage." She says. "With your uniform and everything."

"Guess I probably did."

"I'm so proud of you."

"Says the soon-to-be actress."

"Oh please. I didn't even have to work for that, it was just a lucky break. You on the other hand- you're the best cop in Steel Cable."

"Guess I probably am. And pretty soon I'll have the most beautiful wife."

"What- What?"

"Duck, I love you. When I saw you for the first time, in that crummy apartment where you cared for me after the incident- I thought you were an angel. Turns out you are. Will you marry me?"

Duck laughs once, disbelievingly. "Oh Fakir, of course! Yes! I- I love you too, I love you so much."

For a moment the couple just looks at each other, their huge smiles telling worlds. Then Fakir hugs the girl to him, prone, and says. "We still have a lot of furniture to destroy, but for now, let's just stay like this."

"Yes sir, lieutenant." She says, and kisses him.

"I really must apologize for the uncouth way in which I treated you. If there had been a better way, I'd have taken it, I promise. However, my son…" The enormous man in his wide-pinstriped suit shifts in his enormous chair, a chorus of creaks and moans issuing from the leather surface, and continues speaking in Italian. "The fact is, you've been a little bit uncouth lately yourself. This is true, yes?"

"Don, What are you talking about? Everything I've done is in the best interests of the Family! I don't know what you're talking about!" Mytho responds truthfully, in English, struggling against the ropes tied around his hands. He's in a simple shirt and slacks, his coat taken when they searched him, and tied at the wrists to keep him from doing anything rash. "I just follow orders!"

"Mytho, My son-in-law. You've always been extremely obedient, and I'm grateful. But in this case, what you don't know..._ can_ hurt you. What's the last thing you remember doing, before you woke up here in full faculty?"

_Full faculty? What is he talking about? _"Father, the last thing I remember doing was double-checking the accountant's figures on our Q3 pharmaceutical revenues to see if he was skimming any for himself. He wasn't, the man's straight as an arrow."

"Do you remember when that was?"

"It was yesterday morning- assuming today is Wednesday."

"Today is Friday, son. You don't remember anything of the last few days because the person you think you are... is only you when I don't have something better for you to be doing." The Don's eyes narrow. "You're an experiment, my son. A tool. The fact that you thought I'd legitimately make a… _Fucking German orphan-" _he spits at the words- "a member of the family informs me of what a tool you are. No, all you are is a puppet, and I pull the strings. Don't worry though- I'm good at it by now. Well, I thought I was." He heaves a sort of one-handed shrug.

"Father- I don't understand!"

"Piuma. You saw its effects demonstrated recently, did you not? But the new piuma we distribute and the piuma you've been taking for years now are not the same. You see, you don't need a signal to fall under its effects." He takes out his cigarette case emblazoned with the Red-and-black logo, withdraws a smoke, snaps the thing shut, and waves it back and forth before slipping in back into the dark folds of his jacket. "You see-" He lights the cigarette- "You take two pills of Piuma every night. You do this in your sleep, you don't realize it. This much was accomplished with hypnotism. The piuma lasts until the next dose, and as long as it's in your system, certain signals will cause you to fall into the state of- Well, you know. You don't remember these times, and you don't notice not remembering them."

"But- What about my wife? What about Rue?"

"Rue is not my daughter. I adopted her and had records forged to make her appear so to increase the legitimacy of your experiment. After all, it does explain why there's a non-Sicilian on the board. She doesn't know anything."

Mytho chokes slightly. "What do I do- when I'm under it's effects?"

"Oh, you know. Murder, torture, maybe a massacre or two- all standard stuff. It's your recent escapade in Chinatown that has me concerned, however. Not your handiwork- it was all quite impressive. But that fact you did it of your own volition. Puppets don't act on their own. You forced me to make a decision about what to do with you..." His eyes glint, even as tears stream down Mytho's pale face. "...Which wasn't hard, considering the resources I have at my disposal. You see, I view everything as a cost/benefit equation." The huge man stands up, begins to gesticulate. "If the benefit outweighs the cost, I invest. If the cost outweighs the benefit, I cut my losses and find a new enterprise. Fortunately for you, you're still worth my effort. However, I needed a bit more insurance. _Send her in!_" He calls the last order loudly, and a door opens. Rue is escorted into the room by two men, her arms bound and lips gagged, bruises obvious on her face, tears sparkling in her crimson eyes. The men force her into a seat and exit silently.

"You- you're insane! You're a madman! This whole time I thought-" Mytho gets this far before the pain grows too intense and he begins to hack and cough. Blood and phlegm splatter on the exquisite tilework floor.

"Forget what you thought! In fact, that goes for both of you. I held off on explaining the full details of your little adventure until now, so you could watch her, and she could see the miserable state you're in." He picks up a newspaper from the small table to his side, tosses it to land in Rue's lap. He walks over to her, strokes her purpled cheek, gently removes the gag. "I'll hold it for you. Read it out loud. Use English, so he understands everything."

Between sobs, Rue chokes out a solemn "Fuck you." Without hesitation, Don Corvo winds up and bashes her face with an enormous fist, then in the same gentle voice repeats himself.

"Read the paper, my dearest daughter."

Rue's cheeks, so usually dusted rouge and full of cheer, are marbled with blood, tears and bruise marks. They quiver as she begins to read. "Mmm… Mass- Massacre in Chinatown- Local g-gangs likely involved- number of dead in the dozens? Mytho, whu- what does this mean?"

"Baby, baby, I don't know, I don't know, I don't-"

"Look closer." Rumbles the elated voice of the Don, a grin revealing numerous gold teeth. "Who's that white-haired man pointing a gun at that woman?"

Rue's eyes go wide, ruby irises fully encircled by white, mouth struggling to drop open but for the throbbing pain. "No- God in heaven-"

"What, what is it, Rue, tell me what you're looking at-!"

"It's you. It's you, Mytho." At her words, Mytho's jaw clamps shut.

"No…"

"Oh, yes." says Don Corvo with relish, clapping his white-gloved hands a few times. "Now that you both get the picture, here's the next step." He reaches into his coat pocket, withdraws his cigarette case once more, and opens it with a springy _click_. He withdraws a single red-and-black pill. "We're going to add one more player to our little game." He saunters back to Rue, roughly grabs her face in his palm, and wrenches her mouth open. He sticks the pill all the way to the back of her throat, chuckling at her attempts to bite his fingers, and then forces her mouth shut again. When he's sure she's swallowed the pill, he leans down to her level, drinking in her hatred eye-to-eye, and whispers to her. "Now listen well, daughter. Your husband is a bad man. He's not a pharmaceuticals company vice president, he's a gangster, a made man in the sicilian mafia. He kills for a living, and he kills for entertainment as well. But he only kills when I say it's OK. Now your role in our little arrangement is simple. If he behaves against my wishes, you will kill him, and then yourself. You will know what this means without remembering having learned it. The gun is in your home. You will know where to find it without remembering having been told."

Rue's eyes have become glassy. She nods, then passes out. Mytho screams.

"NOOOO! RUE! NO, RUE, DON'T LISTEN! DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!_"_

She doesn't react to this at all. The Don turns to him and says "You should be feeling nostalgic right now, this is exactly how your indoctrination went. Now here's what I want from you. Live your life as though you didn't know this, just as you've been living, and there will be no further complications. Complicate matters and the police will find a high-society open-and-shut murder-suicide case in your house like they see all the time. My organization will take care of you just as it has been if you stick to my rules, but go and do something like this again and you and your wife will both die."

"Why not just kill me." Asks Mytho, defeated and deflated.

"Because, my beloved Mytho. You're providing so much valuable data for a new generation of soldiers- once Piuma is ready and on the streets, within a week I'll have a ten-thousand-man army who will obey my beck and call, completely obliviously and without resistance. I estimate I'll have enough men to seal off the city and overthrow the police in approximately 15 days. Of course, I'll need to know how they behave when they're aware of their addictions, as is practically inevitable, hence, cost-benefit. Now go to sleep, and when you wake up, check the drawer of your bedside table. There's no sense in only using you half the time now, you're going to start working for real when you're awake, too."

"What do you-" But Mytho can't finish his sentence before a blackjack finds his head for the second time in a day and everything goes black.


End file.
